t 


H 
jm  1 

1 


rfl 


7 


GLIMPSES 


OF 


THE  FRENCH  COURT 

from  JFrenrf)  ^i 


BY 

LAURA   E.  RICHARDS 

AUTHOR  OF 
"CAPTAIN  JANUARY,"  "QUEEN  HILDEGARDE,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON 

ESTES     AND     LAURIAT 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1893, 
BY  ESTES  AND  LAURIAT. 


All  rights  reserved. 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE. 


THE  earnest  student,  who  desires  matter  of 
moment,  is  warned  that  these  slight  sketches 
contain  none  such.  Old  stories  re-told  ;  familiar 
figures  summoned  once  more  from  the  shades  to 
make  their  bow  and  play  their  part, —  these  are 
all  the  writer  has  to  offer.  To  the  general 
reader  who  likes  historic  trifle,  flummery  a  la 
Louis  Quatorze,  they  are  offered  as  a  dish  which, 
even  if  ill-prepared,  cannot  be  wanting  in  a 
certain  flavor. 

August,  1893. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.  OF  PIERRE  DE  CORNEILLE,  AND  OTHERS    .  9 

II.  THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTE     ....  40 

III.  SAINT-SIMON  AT  VERSAILLES 72 

IV.  AN  ODD  VOLUME 102 

V.  TURENNE 130 

VI.  A  CORSAIR  OF  FRANCE 165 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 
PORTRAIT  OF  PIERRE  DE  CORXEILLE    .     .  Frontispiece 

PORTRAIT  OF  MADEMOISELLE  DE  MOVTPEXSIER  41 

PORTRAIT  OF  MADAME  I>E  MAINTEXOX  ...  57 

PORTRAIT  OF  THE  DUCHESSE  DE  SAINT-SIMOX.  72 
PORTRAIT  OF  MADEMOISELLE  HORTEXSE  MAX- 

cixi Ill 

PORTRAIT  OF  Louis  DE  BOURBON,  PRINCE  DE 

Co-sot 135 

PORTRAIT  OF  THE  DUCHESSE  DE  LOXGUEVILLE  143 

PORTRAIT  OF  ADMIRAL  DE  RUYTER  ....  188 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 


OF  PIERRE   DE   CORXEILLE  AND 
OTHERS. 

To  many  of  us,  old  French  poetry  is  little  more 
than  a  name.  Those  who  delight  in  the  prose  of 
French  writers  —  so  brilliant,  so  witty,  so  spark- 
ling—  turn  away  in  carelessness  or  distaste  from 
their  verse,  which  seems,  by  comparison  with  our 
own,  artificial,  shallow,  —  a  stream  flowing  over 
pebbles  rather  than  a  deep  and  many-voiced  sea. 
••  Why  should  I  read  French  poetry  ? "  asks  a 
young  person  of  my  acquaintance ;  "  I  have  not 
half  the  time  I  want  to  give  to  English  ! "  That 
is  true ;  and  true  it  is  that  the  Gallic  muse  cannot 
bear  comparison  with  her  stately  English  sister. 

But  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  study,  like  char- 
ity, should  begin  at  home,  but  should  not  stay 
there  always.  And  he  who  shall  follow  the  stream 
of  French  poetry  through  its  windings,  will  find 
many  a  "  sun-bowed  cascade,"  many  a  sketch  of 
dimpling,  sun-kissed  water,  many  a  silver  tone  and 
murmur  which  haunt  the  ear.  I  shall  not  take 
my  readers  back  to  the  sources  of  the  stream ;  in 


10      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

truth,  I  know  not  precisely  where  they  are.  I  my- 
self hare  gone  no  farther  back  than  Master  Franqois 
Villon,  poet,  housebreaker,  student,  and  rascal-of- 
all-work,  who  ruffled,  swore,  stabbed,  and  sang 
divinely,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  VII.  No  court 
desperado  was  this,  no  stately  Guise  or  lordly 
Rohan,  who  could  run  you  through  the  body  with 
a  grace  which  turned  assassination  into  a  personal 
compliment,  but  a  tavern  brawler,  a  mere  drunken, 
thievish  student,  with  the  sacred  fire  burning  in 
his  breast,  in  spite  of  himself.  It  is  only  in 
our  own  day  that  Villon  has  become  known  to 
English  readers.  His  French  is  as  obscure  as 
Chaucer's  English  in  matter  of  spelling ;  but  "  cer- 
tain of  our  own  poets "  have  set  him  up  on  a 
pedestal  and  bowed  down  before  him,  and  have 
learned  from  him  mysteries  of  grace,  of  metre,  and 
haunting  musical  refrains.  Swinburne  and  Eossetti 
have  loved  and  praised  Villon  over  much,  perhaps, 
when  we  look  at  his  poetry  in  bulk  ;  but  there  are 
some  gems  so  bright  that  perhaps  they  ought  to 
illuminate  the  whole.  His  most  perfect  ballad  has 
been  so  perfectly  translated  by  Rossetti  that  one 
is  tempted  to  think  the  English  version  more 
beautiful  than  the  original. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  DEAD  LADIES. 

Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 

Lady  Flora,  the  lovely  Roman  ? 
Where 's  Hippavchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 

Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman  1 


VILLON.  11 

Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man, 

Only  heard  on  river  and  mere,  — 
She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human  ? 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Where 's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun, 

For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 
Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on  1 

(From  love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen !) 
And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen 

Who  willed  that  Buridan  should  steer, 
Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth,  down  the  Seine  ?  — 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 

With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, — 
Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ermengarde,  the  lady  of  Maine,  — 
And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there  ? 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then  ?  — 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord, 

Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 

Except  with  this  for  an  overword,  — 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

This  is  lovely  and  delicate  as  the  fair  ghosts  it 
conjures  up.  Turn  the  medal,  however,  and  see 
the  same  hand  that  wrote  it  stabbing  a  priest  to 
death  in  a  drunken  brawl  at  a  tavern  door,  it  may 
have  been  on  the  evening  of  the  very  day  whose 
morning  had  brought  out  this  fragrant  blossom  of 
poesy.  Yes,  and  after  that,  Master  Francois  Villon 


12      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

thought  it  wise  to  retire  for  a  time  to  the  provinces, 
where  he  planned  a  series  of  remarkably  clever 
burglaries.  Here  we  will  leave  him,  for,  after  all, 
we  know  that  we  must  draw  the  line  somewhere, 
and  it  might  as  well  be  at  burglars.  Let  us  take 
now  a  flying  leap,  and,  landing  in  the  court  of 
Francis  I.,  pause  to  greet  M.  Clement  Marot,  chief 
of  poets  in  his  day,  friend  and  protege  of  the  king's 
sister,  Marguerite  de  Valois  (herself  a  poetess  of 
some  pretensions).  Marot  occupies  a  distinct  posi- 
tion in  the  history  of  French  poetry.  It  is  in 
reading  his  verses  that,  as  Saint-Beuve  says,  we 
feel  distinctly  for  the  first  time  that  we  have  got 
out  from  the  Gallic  tangle  of  language,  and  are 
now  in  France,  reading  something  that  is  distinc- 
tively French.  A  poet  of  wits  rather  than  of 
genius  or  great  talent,  but  full  of  grace  and  courtly 
speech,  with  no  passion,  but  much  gallantry  and 
sensibility,  he  seems  well  fitted  to  the  splendid  and 
glittering  court  where  his  entire  life  was  spent. 
In  1534,  when  the  first  tempest  of  reform  swept 
over  France,  Marot  was  suspected  of  heresy,  and 
withdrew  to  Ferrara,  to  the  protection  of  its 
Duchess,  Renee  of  France,  daughter  of  Louis  XII. 
There  he  met  no  less  a  person  than  Calvin,  who 
was  engaged  in  translating  the  Psalms  into  verse. 
Poet  and  Reformer  talked  together  of  the  grandeur 
of  Hebrew  poesy,  and  the  former  was  fired  with 
ambition  to  make  the  same  attempt.  Did  so,  on 
his  return  to  France,  and  presented  his  version  to 


MAROT.  13 

Charles  V.,  who  happened  to  be  passing  through 
the  country  opportunely,  on  his  way  to  chastise 
certain  rebellious  burghers  of  Ghent  who  may  be 
not  unknown  to  my  readers.  (Let  me  now  throw 
in  here  a  stray  fact  which  may  be  productive  of 
meditation.  The  favorite  psalm  of  His  Imperial. 
Majesty  Charles  V.  was  also  the  favorite  of  one 
Martin  Luther.  ''Trust  in  the  Lord,  for  he  is 
good,"  etc.  "  It  is  my  friend,"  says  Luther.  "  It 
has  saved  me  in  many  a  strait  from  which  emperors, 
kings,  sages,  nor  saints  could  have  delivered  me.") 
Now,  I  may  have  my  own  opinion  about  most 
gentlemen,  whether  poets  or  reformers,  who  trans- 
lated the  Psalms  into  verse.  I  may  think  that 
such  translations  should  be  a  penal  offence,  to  be 
visited  with  fine  or  imprisonment.  But  this  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  Marot,  encouraged  and 
applauded  by  king  and  emperor,  by  Calvin  and 
Luther,  translated  fifty  psalms ;  and  it  was  cer- 
tainly far  better  that  they  should  be  translated  in 
rhyme  than  not  translated  at  all.  He  dedicated 
the  collection  to  the  King  and  the  ladies  of  France. 
Addressing  the  ladies,  in  the  dedication  he  says : 
"  When  will  the  Golden  Time  come  wherein  God 
alone  is  adored,  praised,  sung  as  he  ordains,  and 
his  glory  shall  not  be  given  to  others  ?  "  He  calls 
upon  the  matrons  and  maidens  of  France,  whom 
God  had  made  to  be  his  temple,  to  turn  from  the 
bad  example  of  those  who  put  unclean  songs  in 
their  lips.  "  Here  is,"  he  said,  "  matter  without 


14      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

offence  to  sing.  But  no  songs  please  you  that  are 
not  of  Love.  Certes,  these  are  of  nothing  else  but 
Love ;  Love  itself,  by  Supreme  Wisdom,  was  their 
composer,  and  vain  man  was  the  transcriber  only. 
That  Love  gave  you  language  and  voices  for  your 
notes  of  praise.  It  is  a  Love  that  will  not  torment 
your  hearts,  but  fill  your  whole  souls  with  the 
pleasure  angels  share.  .  .  .  Oh,  happy  he  who 
shall  see  the  blossoming  of  that  time  when  the 
rustic  at  his  plough,  the  driver  in  the  street,  the 
workman  in  his  shop,  solace  labor  with  the  praise 
of  God  !  Begin,  Ladies,  begin !  help  on  the  Golden 
Age,  and,  singing  with  gentle  hearts  those  sacred 
strains,  exchange  the  everchanging  God  of  Foolish 
Love  for  the  God  of  a  Love  that  will  not  change." 
And  the  ladies  began,  and  the  gentlemen  followed. 
The  "  holy  song-book  "  became  the  fashion  of  the 
day,  and  a  rage  of  what  might  be  called  jocund 
piety  possessed  the  public  mind.  D'Israeli  tells  us 
that  "  no  book  was  ever  more  eagerly  received  by 
all  classes  than  Marot's  '  Psalms.'  "  In  the  fervor 
of  that  day,  they  sold  faster  than  the  printers 
could  take  them  off  their  presses  ;  but  as  they 
were  understood  to  be  songs,  and  yet  were  not 
accompanied  by  music,  every  one  set  them  to 
favorite  tunes,  commonly  those  of  popular  ballads. 
Each  of  the  royal  family,  and  every  nobleman, 
chose  a  psalm  or  song  which  expressed  his  own 
personal  feelings,  adapted  to  his  own  tune.  The 
Dauphin,  afterwards  Henry  II.,  a  great  hunter, 


RONSARD.  15 

when  he  went  to  the  chase  was  singing,  "  Ainsi 
qu'on  vit  le  cerf  bruyre,"  — "  Like  as  the  hart 
desireth  the  water-brooks."  There  is  a  curious 
portrait  of  the  mistress  of  Henry,  the  famous 
Diane  cle  Poictiers,  recently  published,  on  which  is 
inscribed  this  verse  of  the  psalm.  The  Queen's 
favorite  was  — 

"  Ne  vueilles  pas,  O  Sire, 
Me  repreudre  en  ton  ire  ; " 

that  is,  "  Rebuke  me  not  in  thy  indignation,"  which 
she  sang  to  a  fashionable  jig.  Antony,  King  of 
Navarre,  sang  "  Revenge  moy,  prens  la  querelle," 
or,  "  Stand  up,  0  Lord,  to  revenge  my  quarrel,"  to 
the  air  of  a  dance  of  Poitou.  King  Francis  had 
no  idea  that  this  was  all  atrocious  heresy  and  wick- 
edness, till  the  Sorbonne  told  him  so :  whereupon 
he  promptly  banished  Marot,  who  fled  to  Geneva. 
Here  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his  life,  becoming 
more  and  more  identified  with  the  Reformers, 
writing  spiritual  songs,  praying  much,  loving  much, 
happier,  we  may  think,  than  ever  in  his  golden 
days  at  court,  when  a  royal  princess  was  his  pupil, 
and  king  and  emperor  vied  in  singing  his  praises. 

Pass  we  on  to  the  second  half  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  to  Pierre  de  Ronsard,  prince  of  poets, 
whose  father  was  maitre  d' hotel  to  Marot's  master, 
Francis  the  First,  and  who  himself  began  life  as  a 
page  in  the  service  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  third 
son  of  that  monarch.  Young  Ronsard  travelled  in 


16      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

Italy  and  in  England  with  his  princely  master.  In 
the  latter  country  he  may  have  met  "Wyatt  and 
Surrey,  twin  morning  stars  of  English  poesy  :  and 
indeed  there  are  features  in  his  poems  which  recall 
their  manner,  —  the  same  classicism,  the  same 
formal  grace.  Forsaking  arms  to  follow  the  Muse, 
he  gave  up  the  joys  of  a  soldier's  life,  and  spent 
seven  laborious  years  in  making  himself  a  poet. 
He  formed  the  society  of  the  Pleiade,  —  a  constella- 
tion which  shone  brightly  in  the  otherwise  empty 
sky  of  French  poetry ;  seven  young  men,  full  of 
enthusiasm,  devoting  themselves  to  the  reformation 
of  their  national  language,  their  national  poetry, 
on  strictly  classical  models. 

This,  briefly,  is  what  Ronsard  and  his  followers 
wished  to  do.  He  has  been  speaking  of  the  old 
romances,  of  the  traditional  poetry  of  Provence 
and  the  Trouveres,  and  conjuring  his  followers  to 
torn  to  the  classics  of  Greece  and  Koine.  "Be 
assured,  my  readers,  that  he  will  be  the  genuine 
poet  whom  I  look  for  in  our  language  who  shall 
make  me  indignant,  shall  soothe  and  rejoice,  shall 
cause  me  to  grieve,  to  love,  to  hate,  to  wonder,  to 
be  astounded ;  in  short,  who  shall  hold  the  bridle 
of  my  affections,  turning  me  to  this  side  or  that  at 
his  pleasure.  .  .  .  Thither,  then,  0  Frenchmen, 
advance  courageously,  towards  that  illustrious 
Roman  city ;  and  with  the  booty  plundered  from 
her,  as  you  have  more  than  once  done,  adorn  your 
temple  and  your  altars. 


RONSARD.  17 

"  Fear  no  more  those  cackling  geese,  that  fierce 
Manlius,  nor  that  traitor  Camillus,  who,  under  the 
pretext  of  good  faith,  surprises  you  in  your  naked- 
ness as  you  count  out  the  ransom  of  the  Capitol. 
Enter  that  false-tongued  Greece,  and  sow  there 
once  again  the  famous  nation  of  the  Gallo-Greeks. 
Pillage  without  scruple  the  sacred  treasures  of  that 
Delphic  temple,  as  you  did  of  old,  and  fear  no 
more  that  dumb  Apollo,  his  false  oracles,  and  his 
rebounding  arrows. 

"  Remember  your  ancient  Marseilles,  the  second 
Athens,  and  your  Gallic  Hercules,  drawing  the 
people  behind  him  by  their  ears,  with  a  chain 
attached  to  his  tongue." 

This  was  the  counsel  which  Pierre  de  Ronsard 
kept  steadily  before  him  during  the  years  of  study 
which  were  to  make  him,  as  he  proudly  hoped,  the 
poet  of  the  future  France.  The  poet  of  the  pre- 
sent, that  is,  of  his  own  day,  he  speedily  became. 
After  the  publication  of  his  "Odes  and  Amours" 
in  1552,  he  sprang  lightly  to  the  pinnacle  of  fame. 
France  hailed  him  as  her  Pindar,  her  Horace,  her 
Petrarch.  Wise  men  and  monarchs  vied  in  pay- 
ing him  homage.  Marguerite  of  Savoy  accepted 
the  dedication  of  his  "  Hymns  and  Amours."  Mary 
Stuart  lent  a  similar  patronage  to  the  first  col- 
lected edition  of  his  works  in  1560,  and  sent  him 
two  thousand  crowns  and  a  costly  piece  of  plate. 
Elizabeth  of  England  sent  him  a  valuable  dia- 
mond in  token  of  her  regard.  Catherine  de'  Medici 


18      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

publicly  thanked  him  for  his  discourse  about  the 
miseries  of  these  times  (1563),  directed  against 
the  Calviriists,  and  suggested  to  him  the  publica- 
tion of  his  heroic  poem,  "  La  Franciade."  This 
epic  appeared  twenty  days  after  the  massacre  of 
St.  Bartholomew.  It  was  intended  to  describe  in 
twenty-four  books  the  mighty  deeds  of  the  race  of 
French  kings,  descended  from  Francion,  a  child  of 
Hector,  and  a  Trojan  by  birth.  But,  alas !  royal 
patronage  was  needed  for  so  mighty  a  Avork,  and 
only  four  books,  only  a  poor  matter  of  five  or  six 
thousand  verses,  had  appeared,  when  the  death  of 
Charles  the  Ninth  put  a  summary  step  to  further 
publication.  May  we  not  also  surmise  that,  good 
Catholic  though  Ronsard  was,  his  Muse  may  have 
shrunk  so  appalled  by  the  monstrous  deed  of  the 
reigning  Valois  that  he  had  no  longer  the  heart  to 
tell,  nor  the  world  to  hear,  more  tales  of  royal 
heroism  ? 

But  higher  approbation  by  far  did  Ronsard 
receive  than  that  of  these  tinselled  monarchs  of 
a  day.  The  immortal  Tasso  submitted  to  him  the 
first  outline  of  the  "Jerusalem  Delivered,"  and 
Montaigne,  talking  with  himself  and  the  ages  in 
his  quiet  study,  declared  that  French  poetry  had 
attained  its  standard,  and  could  not  go  beyond 
Ronsard.  Of  the  other  six  stars  of  the  Pleiade  I 
shall  say  nothing ;  for  their  glory,  such  as  it  was, 
was  eclipsed  by  the  brilliancy  of  their  master,  and 
their  poetry  would  have  for  us  but  little  interest. 


MALHERBE.  19 

Of  one  of  them,  however,  Joachim  cle  Bellay,  it 
is  worth  while  to  say  that  Spenser  admired  him 
greatly,  and  made  several  translations  from  his 
works. 

But  to  go  back  to  Eonsard.  Surely  never  was  a 
more  signal  example  of  the  fickleness  of  fashion 
and  of  fame  than  the  "to-day"  and  the  "to- 
morrow "  of  the  Prince  of  Poets :  the  day  brilliant 
with  the  sun  of  success ;  the  morrow,  when  clouds 
of  abuse  and  ridicule  were  to  hide  entirely  his 
bhining  image.  Already  at  his  death,  in  1585,  Mal- 
herbe  was  thirty  years  old,  —  Malherbe,  who  was 
to  dethrone  the  prince,  to  tear  off  his  crown,  and 
hold  him  up  to  the  pitiless  laughter  of  the  same 
public  which  had  so  lately  bowed  before  his  throne. 
"  Enfin,"  says  Boileau,  "  Malherbe  vint,"  —  "  At 
last  Malherbe  came." 

When  Henry  of  Navarre  asked  Cardinal  Du- 
perron  why  he  no  longer  wrote  verses,  the  prelate 
replied  that  no  one  ought  to  meddle  with  poetry 
after  a  certain  gentleman  of  Normandy,  M.  de 
Malherbe.  To  this  contemporary  opinion  the  next 
generation,  that  of  Boileau,  Corneille,  Bossuet,  sub- 
scribed, and  Malherbe  was  lauded  to  the  skies, 
while  Ronsard  was  contemptuously  relegated  to  an 
oblivion  from  which  only  the  present  generation 
has  seen  him  rescued.  And  yet  this  mighty  Mal- 
herbe, if  we  look  at  what  he  really  did,  was  only  a 
follower  of  the  school  of  which  Ronsard  was  the 
apostle.  Great  things  he  did  for  the  language,  no 


20      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

doubt,  refining,  chiselling,  condemning,  selecting; 
an  eminent  critic,  caustic  and  acute.  But  —  a  poet  ? 
Of  twenty  who  read  Ronsard  to-day,  I  doubt  if 
there  are  three  who  would  care  to  read  Malherbe's 
coldly  polished  verse.  But  he  and  his  followers 
laughed  with  malicious  contempt  over  the  poetry 
of  the  Pleiade  and  the  host  of  minor  poets  which 
had  sprung  up  around  them.  In  his  bitterness,  he 
sometimes  forgot  his  manners,  —  a  thing  which  a 
Frenchman  seldom  does.  Dining  one  day  with  Des- 
portes,  another  translator  of  psalms,  and  a  worthy 
and  excellent  man,  if  no  great  poet,  the  latter  rose 
from  the  table  early  in  the  course  of  the  dinner, 
with  all  an  author's  eagerness  to  bring  his  great 
work  for  his  guest's  inspection.  "Never  mind, 
never  mind,"  said  Malherbe;  "your  soup  is 
better  than  your  psalms!"  Assuredly,  if  labor 
could  make  a  poet,  this  accomplished  man  of  letters 
should  have  been  a  great  one.  Witness  the  ode 
addressed  to  the  President  of  Verdun,  and  intended 
to  console  him  for  the  loss  of  his  wife :  it  took  a 
year  to  compose,  and  reached  the  bereaved  hus- 
band soon  after  he  had  consoled  himself  by  a 
second  marriage.  In  his  passionate  desire  and 
endeavor  for  the  purification  of  the  language,  his 
savage  energy  of  criticism,  nay,  in  some  of  his 
more  personal  qualities,  Malherbe  has  been  not 
inaptly  compared  to  Samuel  Johnson.  Also  he 
had  his  Boswell,  in  the  person  of  Racan,  friend, 
pupil,  and  follower,  who  "danced  attendance  on 


MALHERBE.  21 

the  old  pedant  as  he  sat  at  his  meals,  and  thank- 
fully picked  up  the  crumbs  which  fell  from  the 
lips  of  the  literary  giant."  Here  is  a  single  sen- 
tence, taken  from  Racan's  Life  of  Malherbe,  which 
certainly  has  the  true  Johnsonian  ring:  "Sir,  be 
assured  that  if  our  verses  live  after  us,  all  the 
glory  for  which  we  can  hope  is  that  we  shall  be 
called  two  excellent  arrangers  of  syllables ;  that  it 
will  be  said  that  we  had  a  great  power  over  words, 
for  the  placing  of  them  fitly,  each  in  its  order,  and 
that  we  were  both  great  asses  to  spend  the  best 
part  of  our  lives  in  an  exercise  so  little  serviceable 
to  the  public  and  to  ourselves."  Malherbe's  death 
was  wholly  consistent  with  his  life,  if  we  may  trust 
an  anecdote  which,  if  not  true,  is  well  found.  He 
lay  on  his  death-bed,  we  are  told,  in  his  modest 
chamber.  On  one  side  sat  the  old  woman  who 
cared  for  him  and  made  his  gruel ;  on  the  other 
a  priest,  with  crucifix  in  hand  and  breviary  on 
knee.  The  good  father,  with  more  zeal  than  elo- 
quence, conjured  the  dying  sinner  to  repent;  and 
then,  to  encourage  him,  began  to  describe  the  heav- 
enly joys  which  awaited  the  ransomed  soul  beyond 
the  grave.  "  Crowns  of  glory,  my  faith !  harps 
and  wings,  the  finest  music  sounding  all  day  long, 
and  streets  all  paved  with  gold.  Blessed  Ursula, 
to  think  of  it !  One  should  smile,  one  should  laugh, 
instead  of  groaning  in  this  manner."  For  the 
patient  was  groaning ;  was  becoming  more  and 
more  agitated  every  moment.  Thinking  him  over- 


22      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

come  with  religious  emotion,  the  worthy  priest 
waxed  warmer,  and  fairly  revelled  in  gold  and 
glory,  while  the  old  nurse  clasped  her  hands  in. 
rapture  over  her  own  and  her  master's  blessedness 
to  come.  To  these  two  good  souls  this  man  lying 
here  was  not  the  rehabilitator  of  the  French  lan- 
guage, the  scourge  of  the  Ronsardists,  the  literary 
light  of  his  age,  he  was  simply  a  person  who  was 
dying.  But  now,  as  some  sounding  phrase  rolled 
from  the  father's  lips,  full  of  glory  but  not  of 
grammar,  the  dying  man  raised  himself  in  bed,  and 
opened  his  hollow  eyes :  "  Improve  your  style, 
sir ;  improve  your  style  !  If  these  are  your  joys 
of  heaven  —  "  and  he  fell  back  on  his  pillows,  and 
spoke  no  more. 

It  may  occur  to  some  of  my  readers  that  the 
title  of  this  paper  is  Pierre  de  Corneille,  and  that 
an  essay  should  have  its  limits.  But  take  heart ! 
I  am  coming  to  Corneille  very  soon,  in  a  little 
moment.  Let  me  just  stop  long  enough  to  found 
the  French  Academy,  —  a  trifle,  a  bagatelle,  which 
I  can  briefly  dispose  of. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  club,  a  literary 
club,  which  met  at  the  house  of  Valentin  Conrart, 
one  of  the  secretaries  of  Louis  XIII.  There  were 
at  first  nine  members,  then  twelve.  These  friends, 
to  quote  Pellissoii  in  his  "  History  of  the  French 
Academy,"  "  finding  that  nothing  was  more  incon- 
venient in  this  great  city  than  to  go  often  and  call 
upon  one  another  without  finding  anybody  at  home, 


THE  ACADEMY.  23 

resolved  to  meet  one  day  in  the  week  at  the  house 
of  one  of  them.  They  used  to  assemble  at  M. 
Corn-art's,  who  happened  to  be  most  conveniently 
quartered  for  receiving  them,  and  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  city.  There  they  conversed  familiarly  as 
they  would  have  done  on  an  ordinary  visit,  and 
upon  all  sorts  of  things,  —  business,  news,  and  liter- 
ature. If  any  one  of  the  company  had  a  work  done, 
as  often  happened,  he  readily  communicated  its 
contents  to  all  the  others,  who  freely  gave  him 
their  opinion  of  it ;  and  their  conferences  were  fol- 
lowed sometimes  by  a  walk,  and  sometimes  by  a 
collation. 

"  Thus  they  continued  for  three  or  four  years,  as 
I  have  heard  many  of  them  say ;  it  was  an  extreme 
pleasure  and  an  incredible  gain,  insomuch  that 
when  they  speak  nowadays  of  that  time,  and  of 
those  early  days  of  the  Academy,  they  speak  of  it 
as  a  golden  age  during  the  which,  without  bustle 
and  without  show,  and  without  any  laws  save 
those  of  friendship,  they  enjoyed  all  that  is  sweet- 
est and  most  charming  in  the  intercourse  of  intel- 
lects and  in  retired  life." 

Surely,  this  was  an  ideal  club;  something  too 
good  to  last.  This  light  could  not  remain  hid  ;  it 
was  remarked  by  many,  among  others  by  Bois 
Robert,  gossip  and  scapegrace,  and  purveyor  of 
intelligence  and  amusement  to  his  Eminence  Car- 
dinal Richelieu.  This  man,  a  beneficed  clergyman 
of  notorious  profligacy,  has  no  claim  to  be  remem- 


24      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

bered  by  posterity;  yet  a  small  anecdote  fixes  him 
in  our  minds.  So  scandalous  was  his  life  that  the 
Cardinal  felt  obliged  at  one  time  to  dismiss  him, 
but  actually  pined  for  the  ready  wit  and  overflow- 
ing merriment  of  the  boon  companion  who  could  by 
shaking  his  cap  and  bells  divert  and  refresh  the 
ear  and  mind  of  the  great  statesman  weary  with 
the  tumult  of  the  nations.  One  day  the  Cardinal 
fell  ill,  and  his  physician,  who  knew  him  well,  pre- 
scribed, in  addition  to  the  medical  horror,  whatever 
it  was,  "  a  dose  of  Bois-Robert,  to  be  taken  at  least 
once  a  week."  Doctors'  orders  are  of  course  never 
disobeyed.  Bois-Robert  was  recalled,  and  the  Car- 
dinal was  amused,  and  recovered. 

This  man  heard  of  the  gatherings  at  Conrart's 
house ;  and  scenting  at  once  a  new  amusement  for 
his  patron,  begged  permission  to  attend  the  meet- 
ings, and  received  it.  Enchanted  with  what  he 
heard  and  saw,  he  flew  to  the  Cardinal  with  a  full 
account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  literary  circle. 
With  his  unerring  instinct,  Richelieu  at  once  saw 
the  possibilities  of  the  affair ;  and,  full  of  interest, 
sent  through  Bois-Robert  a  proposal  that  these 
gentlemen  should  form  a  body,  and  assemble  regu- 
larly and  under  public  authority. 

Great  was  the  dismay  in  the  little  circle  of 
familiar  friends  when  this  bombshell  fell  among 
them.  They  had  been  so  happy,  so  free,  so  un- 
trammelled by  any  shadow  of  authority,  by  any 
loop  or  knot  of  red-tape.  Just  fancy  how  some 


CORNEILLE.  25 

little  band  of  friendly  students  would  feel  if  they 
were  suddenly  called  upon  to  read  their  essays  and 
give  their  opinions  before  the  legislature,  for  ex- 
ample !  The  very  thought  would  be  dreadful.  And 
dreadful  it  was  to  the  cheerful  circle  at  Conrart's 
house. 

The  majority  of  the  club  were  in  favor  of  declin- 
ing this  unsolicited  honor  and  publicity ;  but  pru- 
dence, prevailed,  —  the  Cardinal  was  not  a  person  to 
offend,  —  and  so  the  Academy  was  duly  organized 
and  established,  with  forty  members,  with  Conrart 
as  first  president,  —  all  under  the  supervision  of 
Eichelieu,  who  wished,  as  he  said,  to  be  its  pro- 
tector and  its  father. 

So  much  for  the  Academy,  which  has  continued 
to  accumulate  honor  and  glory  down  to  the  present 
day,  and  will,  let  us  hope,  long  so  continue.  Now 
the  moment  has  come  for  me  to  inform  you  that 
in  the  year  1606  was  born,  in  the  ancient  city  of 
Eouen,  Pierre  de  Corneille.  I  could  tell  you  much 
about  Rouen,  for  it  was  once  my  happiness  to 
spend  a  week  there,  —  a  town  out  of  a  fairy  tale, 
the  thought  of  which  always  calls  to  my  mind 
the  three  words  in  which  Tennyson  so  perfectly 
describes  the  Camelot  of  King  Arthur :  "  the  dim, 
rich  city."  But  I  can  tell  you  very  little  about 
Corneille's  life  there.  His  life  seems  to  have  been 
his  work ;  little  outside  of  that  is  known  of  him. 
Reserved  and  sensitive,  if  not  morose,  he  lived 
apart,  almost  an  ascetic ;  yet  some  would  have  us 


26      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

think  that  a  love  affair,  a  passion  for  a  shadowy 
Mademoiselle  Milet  (but  where  are  the  snows  of 
yester-year?)  gave  him  the  first  impulse  towards 
dramatic  production. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  we  find  him  in  his  early  man- 
hood in  Paris,  one  of  the  five  playwrights  who 
"  composed  "  the  plays  of  the  great  Cardinal.  For 
Richelieu,  not  content  with  all  the  great  things  he 
could  do,  and  do  admirably,  must  needs  aspire 
to  one  thing  that  he  could  not  do;  namely,  the 
writing  of  plays.  Nevertheless,  the  plays  were 
written  somehow.  His  Eminence  made  the  sketch, 
and  gave  it  to  his  proteges,  who  elaborated  it,  made 
it  ready  for  the  stage,  a.nd  then  returned  it  for 
His  Eminence's  signature.  Thus  were  produced 
"  Miraine,"  the  "  Tuileries,"  and  the  "  Blind  Girl 
of  Smyrna."  But  the  young  Corneille  had  ideas 
of  his  own  which  were  not  always  in  harmony 
with  those  of  the  Cardinal.  He  began  to  use  too 
much  freedom,  to  alter  the  plans  of  the  acts  given 
him  to  arrange.  The  Cardinal  objected,  and  told 
him  he  lacked  "the  follower  spirit."  Corneille, 
only  too  well  aware  of  this,  quietly  took  his  leave, 
and  retired  to  Rouen  in  1635.  He  had  already 
written  and  produced  several  comedies  of  his  own. 
Of  his  first,  "Melite,"  which  he  wrote  at  three- 
and-twenty,  he  said :  "  It  was  my  first  attempt,  and 
it  has  no  pretence  of  being  according  to  the  rules ; 
for  I  did  not  know  then  that  there  were  any.  I 
had  for  guide  nothing  but  a  little  common-sense, 


CORNEILLE.  27 

together  with  the  models  of  the  late  Hardy,  whose 
vein  was  rather  fertile  than  polished."  The  come- 
dies were  successful ;  but  no  one  thought  the  young 
writer  above  his  fellows,  the  host  of  petty  writers 
who  in  the  newly  awakened  passion  for  the  drama 
(consequent  upon  the  prohibition  of  the  miracle- 
plays)  vied  with  each  other  for  the  success  of  the 
hour.  In  1633  appeared  Corneille's  first  tragedy, 
•%  Medee  ;  "  and  three  years  later  Paris  was  electri- 
fied by  the  production  of  the  "  Cid." 

For  the  plot  of  this  famous  play  Corneille  was 
indebted  to  a  Spanish  work,  "The  Youth  of  the 
Cid,"  by  Guilhen  de  Castro.  From  him  he  bor- 
rowed the  preparations  of  Kodrigue  for  his  contest 
against  the  Moors,  the  duel,  and  some  other  details ; 
but  he  made  them  his  own  by  right  of  genius,  after 
Shakespeare's  fashion.  And  the  loves  of  Rodrigue 
(the  Cid)  and  Chimene,  round  which  the  great 
interest  of  the  play  centres,  are  all  his  own.  So  it 
appeared,  and  all  Paris  went  mad  over  it.  If  we 
wish  to  have  a  clear  appreciation  of  the  rise  and 
development  of  theatres  and  theatre-going,  we  have 
but  to  look  back  a  hundred  years,  and  see  Shak- 
speare  bringing  out  his  immortal  dramas  in  the  ill- 
lighted,  ill-contrived  shed  which  passed  for  a 
theatre  in  "the  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth." 
Look  at  the  matter  as  we  will,  Shakspeare  was, 
in  his  own  day,  but  a  player  and  a  writer  of  plays, 
like  many  another,  to  the  many-headed  multitude. 
Appreciated  by  a  few  he  was,  no  doubt,  but  that 


28      GLIMPSES  OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

was  all.  Whereas  now,  in  Paris,  the  whole  city 
was  agog  over  the  "  Cid."  Not  a  child  but  cried 
"  Vive  Corneille  ! "  not  a  man  or  woman  of  any 
pretentious  to  "  le  beau  monde "  but  had  some 
lines  of  it  by  heart,  to  be  spouted  on  any  or  all 
occasions. 

"I  wish  you  were  here,"  writes  the  comedian 
Mondory  to  Balzac,  "  to  enjoy,  amongst  other  pleas- 
ures, that  of  the  beautiful  comedies  that  are  being 
played,  and  especially  a  Cid  who  has  charmed  all 
Paris.  So  beautiful  is  he  that  he  has  smitten  with 
love  all  the  most  beautiful  ladies,  whose  passion 
has  many  times  blazed  out  in  the  public  theatre. 
Seated  in  a  body  on  the  benches  of  the  boxes  have 
been  seen  those  who  are  commonly  seen  only  in 
gilded  chambers  and  on  the  seat  of  the  fleur-de-lys. 
So  great  has  been  the  throng  at  our  doors,  and  our 
room  is  so  insufficient,  that  the  corners  of  the 
theatre,  which  served  at  other  times  as  niches  for 
the  pages,  have  been  given  as  a  favor  to  the  people 
of  rank,  and  the  stage  itself  is  often  embellished 
with  the  crosses  of  knights  of  the  order." 

"It  is  difficult,"  says  Pellisson,  "to  imagine 
with  what  enthusiasm  this  piece  was  received  by 
court  and  people."  It  was  impossible  to  tire  of 
seeing  it;  nothing  else  was  talked  of,  and  "Beauti- 
ful as  the  Cid  "  passed  into  a  proverb  in  many 
parts  of  France. 

Will  you  hear  briefly  the  story  of  this  all-con- 
quering Cid  ?  Behold  a  king  of  Castile.  Behold 


CORNEILLE.  29 

a  count,  father  of  Chimene,  and  Don  Diegue,  father 
of  Kodrigue.  Behold,  finally,  the  lovers,  Rodrigue, 
the  flower  of  young  Castilian  knighthood,  Chimene 
(in  Spanish,  Xiraena),  the  peerless  beauty.  The 
count  and  Don  Diegue  quarrel,  having  different 
views  as  to  their  respective  glory,  and  the  former 
gives  the  latter  a  blow.  Don  Diegue,  heroic  but 
infirm,  cannot  slay  the  insulter,  but  calls  on  his 
son  to  avenge  him.  Kodrigue,  prompt  to  obey  the 
call  of  honoi-,  challenges  the  count  and  kills  him  out 
of  hand ;  then,  rushing  to  his  Chimene,  his  sword 
still  red  with  her  father's  blood,  flings  himself  at 
her  feet  and  implores  her  to  put  an  end  to  a  life 
which  has  no  further  charms  for  him.  He  has 
.  saved  his  father's  honor,  and  asks  only  the 
privilege  of  dying  at  her  hands.  Chimene  cannot 
slay  the  man  whom  she  madly  loves  ("half  of 
my  life,"  the  poor  lady  cries,  "  has  struck  to  death 
the  other  half!");  he  must  die,  but  not  by  her 
hand.  Unable  to  obtain  the  blood}''  service  he 
craves,  Rodrigue  flies,  summons  his  followers, 
leads  an  army  against  the  Moors,  who  seize  this 
opportune  moment  to  invade  the  kingdom,  smites 
them  hip  and  thigh,  and  captures  their  two  kings, 
whom  he  brings  back  to  the  capital  and  presents 
to  his  own  monarch.  He  is  clasped  to  the  royal 
bosom,  loaded  with  thanks  and  blessings,  and  the 
king  then  and  there  confirms  the  title  of  Cid,  or 
Lord,  by  which  the  captive  Moors  had  hailed 
him. 


30      GLIMPSES  OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

Now  comes  Chimene,  whose  filial  duty  has  con- 
quered her  love,  kneels  before  the  king,  and 
solemnly  demands  the  death  of  her  father's  mur- 
derer. "Kill  the  deliverer  of  Spain?"  cries  the 
good  monarch,  "  By  no  means ! "  and  he  ventures 
to  hint  that  as  the  whole  world  knows  that  she 
loves  Kodrigue  to  distraction,  she  should  marry 
him,  and  make  the  best  of  it.  Chimene  rejects 
this  proposal  with  anger,  and  finally  finds  a 
champion,  Don  Sancho,  who  is  willing  for  her 
sake  to  encounter  the  terrible  Cid.  Ah,  women, 
women  !  why  will  you  give  color  to  the  gibes  of 
men  ?  When  Don  Sancho  (whom  Kodrigue  disarms 
as  if  he  were  a  baby,  and  gently  sends  about  his 
business)  comes  to  tell  her  how  he  has  sped,  she 
thinks  he  has  slain  her  lover ;  and  she  shrieks  and 
raves  at  the  poor  little  man  —  I  am  quite  sure  that 
Don  Sancho  ivas  little,  and  that  he  had  flaxen  hair, 
and  was  rather  nervous  —  till  he  does  not  know 
what  to  say  or  do.  At  this  moment  the  king  enters, 
whereupon  Chimene,  in  her  transport  of  grief,  con- 
fesses to  him  that  he  was  quite  right  about  her 
loving  Kodrigue  to  distraction  ;  now  that  the  latter 
is  dead,  slain  by  a  slave,  a  wretch,  a  murderer 
(can  you  not  see  poor  little  Don  Sancho  standing 
by,  with  his  knees  knocking  together,  and  his  mouth 
open  ?),  there  is  no  harm  in  her  confessing  it. 
"  Dead  ?  "  cries  the  jolly  king,  "  Pooh,  pooh !  nothing 
of  the  sort.  Hey  !  presto !  call  in  Rodrigue  ! " 

The  Cid  enters.      "  Ah,  Chimene  !  "   «  Oh,  Kod- 


CORNEILLE.  31 

rigue!  Ah,  Kodrigue!"  "Oh,  Chimene!"  "Oh, 
miracle  of  love  ! "  etc.  Grand  transformation  scene. 
Columbine  in  the  arms  of  Harlequin.  Pantaloon 
(the  king)  and  Clown  (Don  Sancho)  in  attitudes  of 
delight.  The  good  fairy  descends  in  a  gilded  car 
drawn  by  doves  ;  music,  fire-works,  curtain.  This 
is  the  Cid  in  shorthand. 

Criticism  itself  was  silenced  for  a  while.  The 
former  rivals  of  Corneille,  bewildered,  carried  away 
by  the  torrent  of  popular  enthusiasm,  appeared  by 
their  silence  to  share  in  the  applause  ;  but  it  was 
only  in  appearance,  only  for  a  moment,  till  they 
could  draw  breath.  Then,  in  response  to  the  songs 
of  praise,  rose  the  antistrophe  of  criticism,  abuse, 
satire,  ridicule.  All  the  other  playwrights,  with 
the  one  exception  of  Eotrou,  the  Ben  Jonson  who 
understood  and  appreciated  his  French  Shakspeare, 
set  zealously  to  work  to  pick  flaws  in  the  new 
play.  Leading  the  opposition  and  giving  strength 
and  confidence  to  the  rest,  was  Richelieu  himself. 
There  were  several  reasons  why  the  Cardinal  should 
dislike  the  Cid.  It  was  a  story  of  Spain,  and  held 
up  for  glory  and  admiration  a  Spaniard,  one  of  the 
traditional  enemies  of  France  and  of  Richelieu 
himself.  It  gave  countenance  and  praise  to  the 
practice  of  duelling,  against  which  he  had  set 
his  face,  and  which  he  had  tried  to  put  down  with 
a  high  hand.  It  described  a  king  simple,  genial, 
patriarchal,  the  very  opposite  of  all  that  he  wished 
to  identify  with  the  idea  of  monarchy.  Yes,  all  this 


32      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

was  true :  but  was  this  all  ?  I  think  not.  Greatly  as 
I  admire  the  great  Cardinal,  it  is  impossible  to  be 
blind  to  his  littlenesses ;  and  there  seems  little 
doubt  that  the  real  secret  of  his  bitter  animosity 
towards  Corneille  was  the  latter's  success.  For 
years  the  Cardinal  had  strained  and  labored  up 
the  steep  heights  of  dramatic  glory.  With  his 
five  assistants  even,  he  had  made  little  headway, 
and  his  shrewdness  knew  well  enough  that  it  was 
the  Cardinal,  and  not  the  dramatist,  who  was 
applauded  in  "  Mirame  "  and  "  Europe."  Smarting 
under  this  knowledge,  how  could  he  calmly  see  his 
former  literary  hack,  who  had  tacitly  disdained  his 
master's  work,  spring  lightly  past  him,  and  stand 
like  Mercury  on  the  heaven-kissing  hill  ?  It  was 
perhaps  too  much  to  expect.  With  this  power 
behind  them,  the  chorus  of  critics  barked  loud 
and  louder.  The  play  was  not  classic.  Oh,  hor- 
ror !  this  barbarian  had  departed  from  the  tradi- 
tions. He  made  his  characters  talk,  act,  live,  like 
real  people,  not  like  the  models  of  antiquity. 
What  Greek  or  Latin  dramatist  ever  produced 
anything  like  this  ?  None  !  ergo,  down  with  the 
"  Cid  ! "  Thus  the  critics,  with  Scudery  (brother  of 
the  authoress  of  "  Clelie  ")  at  their  head,  and  the 
Cardinal  cheering  them  on.  Not  content  with  indi- 
vidual attacks,  Richelieu  now  called  upon  the  young 
Academy,  which  he  had  fostered  and  protected  as 
we  have  seen,  to  pronounce  judgment  on  the  "  Cid ; " 
I  should  rather  say,  to  pronounce  against  it.  The 


CORNEILLE.  33 

Academy  did  not  relish  the  task,  very  naturally : 
hung  back,  demurred,  made  one  excuse  and  another; 
but  the  great  man  was  inexorable.  What  were 
these  poor  gentlemen  to  do  ?  On  the  one  hand  King 
and  people,  the  court,  the  Precieuses,  the  very 
boys  in  the  street;  on  the  other,  His  Eminence. 
Need  I  say  it  ?  The  Cardinal's  scale  was  the 
heavier.  The  Academy,  after  much  sorrowful 
labor,  produced  its  famous  judgment,  which  did 
not  then  seem  so  funny  as  it  does  now  :  "  A  piece 
is  only  good  when  it  gives  a  reasonable  content- 
ment ;  that  is,  when  it  pleases  the  learned  as  well 
as  the  people.  We  ought  to  inquire,  not  whether 
the  'Cid'has  pleased,  but  whether  it  ought  to  have 
pleased,"  etc.  In  speaking  of  this  some  years 
later,  when  the  Cardinal  was  gone,  and  the  fame  of 
Corneille  had  forever  silenced  the  lesser  critics, 
Boileau  says:  — 

"  In  vain  against  the  '  Cid '  a  minister  makes  league ; 
All  Paris,  gazing  on  Chimene,  thinks  with  Roclrigue. 
In  vain  to  censure  her  the  Academy  aspires ; 
The  stubborn  populace  revolts,  and  .still  admires." 

And,  indeed,  the  "sentiments  of  the  Academy," 
published  in  December,  1637,  made  no  difference 
whatever  in  the  popularity  of  the  "Cid,"  —  failed 
to  satisfy  the  Cardinal,  on  the  one  hand,  and  made 
Corneille  very  angry,  on  the  other ;  the  moral  of 
which  is  obvious.  Finding  this  weapon  of  no  avail, 
the  politic  Cardinal  changed  his  tactics,  accepted 
the  situation,  and  gave  Corneille  a  pension.  The 

3 


34      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

poet,  with  cheerful  magnanimity,  forgot  his  resent- 
ment, and  dedicated  his   tragedy  of   "  Horatius " 
to  his  Eminence,  whom  he  once  more  styles  "  My 
Lord."      So   ended   the   dispute.      "  Henceforth," 
says  Guizot,  "Corneille  walks  freely  by  himself 
and  in  the  strength  of  his  own  powers ;  the  circle 
of  his  ideas  grows  larger ;  his  style  grows  loftier 
and   stronger   together   with   his   thoughts,  —  and 
purer,   perhaps,  without   his   dreaming  of  it.      A 
more  correct,  a  more  precise,  expression  comes  to 
him,  evoked  by  greater  clearness  in  idea,  greater 
fixity  of  sentiment;    genius,  with  the  mastery  of 
means,  seeks  new  outlets.     Corneille  writes  '  Poly- 
eucte.'  "     This  was  a  tragedy  of  early  Christianity, 
—  a  daring  attempt  in  a  day  when  paganism  had 
obtained  such  complete  control  of  the  stage  that 
Richelieu,  when   alluding  to   Gustavus   Aclolphus 
and  the  religious  wars  in  his  comedy  of  "  Europe," 
dared  not  mention  the  name  of  God  save  in  the 
plural.     The  Hotel  Kambouillet  shook  its  gracious 
head  a  little  over  the  "  Christianism  "  which,  like 
the  Spanish  fire  of  the  "  Cid,"  found  no  prototype 
in  the  models  of  antiquity.     But  again  genius  tri- 
umphed, and  "Polyeucte"  holds  its  own  to  this 
day,  —  a  masterpiece  of  pathetic  tenderness,  full 
of  sublime  thoughts. 

In  "Cinna"  Corneille  showed  that  he  could  pro- 
duce a  strictly  classical  drama  with  equal  power 
and  success ;  and  most  of  his  plays,  indeed,  after 
this  are  formed  on  the  classical  model.  One  may 


CORNEILLE.  35 

question  whether  this  was  on  the  whole  fortunate. 
Was  it  best  for  Corneille  or  the  world  that  he 
should  desert  the  dramatic  ground  of  the  "  Cid," 
and  force  himself  strictly  into  the  classical  mould? 
"  Did  he,"  asks  Van  Laun,  an  eminent  French  critic, 
"  in  this  way  just  miss  the  chance  of  becoming  the 
genuine  tragic  genius  whom  France  has  never  yet 
seen,  because  she  cannot  divorce  tragedy  from  the 
classical  models?"  The  point  is  well  put.  The 
question  would  probably  be  answered  in  the  affir- 
mative by  every  Anglo-Saxon  reader  who  has  been 
brought  up  with  Shakspeare  on  a  mountain  top, 
with  all  the  winds  of  heaven  blowing  about  him, 
and  who  would  stifle  in  the  incense-laden  air  of  the 
most  strictly  classical  temple  the  world  has  ever 
seen,  if  the  doors  were  shut. 

If  we  are  to  believe  Fontenelle,  Richelieu  proved 
his  new  friendship  for  the  poet  in  the  matter  of 
his  marriage.  Mademoiselle  Michel — poor  snow- 
flake  of  a  bygone  year !  — was  long  since  forgotten ; 
and  Corneille  (I  cannot  discover  in  what  year) 
was  desperately  in  love  with  a  fair  Mademoiselle 
de  Lamperiere,  whose  father  had  other  views  for 
her,  and  considered  dramatic  genius  of  less  impor- 
tance in  a  son-in-law  than  a  fortune.  Seeing  the 
poet  one  day  plunged  in  gloomy  thought,  Richelieu 
asked  him  if  he  were  at  work  upon  a  tragedy. 
Corneille  replied  that  his  own  sorrows  had  taken 
the  place  of  imaginary  ones,  —  that,  in  short,  he 
was  hopelessly  in  love.  But  see,  now,  what  a  fine 


36      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

tiling  it  is  to  be  a  cardinal  and  a  minister !  Kiche- 
lieu  drew  from  the  unhappy  poet  the  story  of  his 
passion,  and  left  him  without  comment.  Next  day 
the  father  of  the  damsel  was  summoned  to  appeal- 
before  his  Eminence ;  went,  with  what  tremblings, 
what  agonized  mental  review  of  any  little  pecca- 
dilloes of  his  that  might  possibly  have  come  to  the 
ear  of  the  terrible  Cardinal,  we  may  well  imagine  ! 
But  we  see  him  emerging  joyful  from  the  dreaded 
presence,  and  calling  to  his  arms  the  despised  son- 
in-law  elect,  —  thankful,  for  his  own  part,  to  have 
got  off  so  easily,  and  well  pleased  to  have  in  his 
family  a  man  whom  the  Cardinal  favored. 

With  this  bride,  of  whom  I  can  find  no  other 
mention,  Corneille  retired  once  more  to  his  native 
Rouen,  where  he  lived  and  wrote  many  years.  His 
later  productions  had  not  the  success  which  had 
crowned  the  "Cid"  and  "China."  Always  melan- 
choly, he  became  embittered,  and  we  are  sorry  to 
know  that  the  success  of  the  young  Racine  was  a 
sharp  thorn  in  his  side.  He  should  have  been 
satisfied  with  his  own  reputation,  which  was  great 
and  has  proved  enduring.  But  when  was  man  ever 
satisfied  ?  Do  we  not  all  know  the  story  of  the 
fisherman  and  the  flounder  ? 

Corneille  died  in  1684.  Have  you  patience  to 
hear  what  his  brother  Frenchmen  think  of  him 
to-day  ?  If  so,  listen  to  Henri  Van  Lauu :  "  When 
we  have  read  one  of  the  best  tragedies  of  Corneille, 
—  and  I  admit  at  once  that  they  are  very  unequal, 


CORNEILLE.  37 

—  we  rise  from  its  perusal  better  than  we  were 
before,  with  an  intense  reverence  for  these  more 
than  human  heroes  and  heroines  whose  adventures 
we  have  followed.  They  are  superhumanly  brave, 
generous,  lofty  in  words  and  action,  and  the  atmo- 
sphere they  move  in  becomes  purer  and  better 
because  they  dwell  there.  They  have  no  mental 
weaknesses,  or  if  they  show  them,  it  is  on  a  much 
grander  scale  than  ordinary  human  beings.  Their 
virtues  are  enhanced  by  the  vices  and  follies  of 
the  tyrants,  —  the  wicked  and  sometimes  ridiculous 
personages  who  serve  as  their  foil.  All  the  char- 
acters, indeed,  are  so  completely  concrete  in  their 
actions,  so  monotonously  virtuous  or  vicious,  so 
argumentative,  that  they  seem  not  to  possess  many 
passions,  but  only  one ;  and  whether  as  fathers  or 
lovers,  friends  or  enemies,  tyrants  or  champions, 
we  admire  them,  respect  them,  but  admit  that  they 
sometimes  weary  us.  And  this  is  not  to  be  won- 
dered at;  for  we  are  accustomed  to  meet,  in  the 
circle  in  which  we  move,  complex  men  and  women, 
gifted  with  many  virtues,  having  not  a  few  vices, 
and  animated  by  various  passions,  of  which  one 
may  now  and  then  predominate,  but  which  gen- 
erally work  harmoniously  together,  and  do  not 
obtrude  themselves  offensively. 

"  Shakspeare  is  perhaps  the  best  delineator  of 
humanity,  considered  from  this  point  of  view. 
But  Corneille's  characters  are  ever  grandiloquent, 
move  always  on  stilts,  are  often  too  refined,  and 


38      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

not  seldom  over-emphatic  in  the  expression  of  their 
love  or  hatred.  Hence  we  feel  constrained  when 
in  their  company ;  they  are  wanting  in  something ; 
they  are  too  completely  good,  bad,  or  heroic ;  they 
are  quite  different  from  ns,  —  they  are,  perhaps, 
too  much  above  us.  What  are  our  petty  moving- 
strings,  our  huckstering  ambition,  in  comparison 
with  their  motives  ?  Their  principles  are  not 
ours;  their  very  language  differs;  their  noble 
actions  tacitly  reprove  our  daily  mode  of  living. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  sneer  at  such  tragedies ;  to 
say  that  it  would  be  very  uncomfortable  to  live 
with  such  eminently  dignified  and  virtuous  men; 
but  granted  all  this,  yet  the  fact  remains  that  we 
feel  all  the  better  and  more  moral  after  the  perusal 
of  Corneille.  We  rise  with  a  momentary  desire  to 
imitate,  if  possible,  such  pure  ideals.  We  go  on 
with  our  every-day  life,  mayhap  not  much  better, 
yet  certainly  not  much  the  worse,  after  reading 
one  of  Corneille's  tragedies,  —  thanking  God  in  our 
innermost  heart,  if  we  have  any  manliness  left  in 
us,  that  there  were  men  in  this  world  who  created 
such  genuine  and  high-minded  characters,  which 
have  no  prototypes  in  real  life,  but  are  grand  exem- 
plars for  many  ages,  to  be  respectfully  admired  as 
long  as  there  exist  people  wise  enough  to  reverence 
imaginative  and  unapproachable  creations.  Men, 
as  a  general  rule,  love  variety  and  emotion ;  but 
if  it  be  the  highest  aim  of  poetry  to  ennoble  and 
strengthen  the  mind,  and  not  to  deprave  or  torture 


CORNEILLE.  39 

it,  then  Covneille  is  one  of  the  few  grand  people 
with  which  the  world  has  been  blessed." 

Now,  how  far  can  English-speaking  readers 
indorse  this  opinion?  Do  I,  after  reading  (all 
too  cursorily,  I  sorrowfully  admit)  Corneille,  feel 
impelled  to  put  down  his  name  in  the  list  of 
books  for  young  readers  ?  Frankly,  no  !  Every- 
thing goes  by  comparison  in  this  world ;  and  in 
regard  to  the  Father  of  French  Tragedy,  I  must 
repeat  what  I  said  in  the  beginning  of  French 
poetry  in  general,  —  that  it  is  artificial,  shallow ; 
a  stream  flowing  over  pebbles  rather  than  a  deep 
and  many-voiced  sea.  Most  of  the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  Corneille  are  abstract  monstrosities. 
They  talk  through  interminable  pages  of  polished 
rhyme  ;  they  talk,  they  walk,  but  they  do  not  live. 
If  he  had  had  the  courage  to  pursue  the  path  which 
he  opened  so  brilliantly  in  the  "  Cid,"  who  knows 
what  he  might  have  accomplished  ?  Then  France 
might  have  had  an  original  dramatic  literature  in 
tragedy,  as  by  grace  of  Moliere  she  has  in  comedy, 
instead  of  a  weak  imitation  of  a  great  defunct 
one.  In  a  word,  French  tragedy,  Tarpeia-like,  was 
crushed  to  the  earth  by  the  immortal  classics. 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTE  (LULLY). 
1633-1637. 

IT  sounds  like  a  fairy  story.  Once  upon  a  time 
there  was  a  little  boy,  a  little  black-eyed,  dirty  boy, 
who  played  about  the  streets  of  Florence,  in  the 
years  following  1633,  which  was  the  year  of  his 
birth ;  his  parents,  a  shadowy  Cavaliere  Lulli  and 
Catarina  somebody,  seem  to  have  concerned  them- 
selves little  or  not  at  all  about  the  lad,  and  all  the 
care  he  had  seems  to  have  been  given  by  an  old 
Franciscan  monk  who  was  fond  of  music,  and 
played  the  guitar.  On  pleasant  evenings  this  good 
old  man  was  used  to  sit  in  the  cloister  of  his  con- 
vent and  strum  on  his  guitar,  and  sing  pious  hymns, 
and  perhaps  other  songs,  too,  which  had  nothing  to 
do  with  his  vocation,  —  songs  about  Ninetta  and 
"  barchetta,"  and  moonlight,  and  other  pretty  and 
irreligious  things.  Now  he  often  noticed  that  as 
soon  as  he  began  to  play,  there  stole  round  the 
corner,  coming  he  knew  not  whence,  a  little  black- 
eyed  boy,  who  listened  and  listened,  as  if  hearing 
had  become  for  the  moment  his  only  sense.  From 
notice  it  was  but  a  step  to  acquaintance.  "  Hola, 
little  one,  thou  !  Thou  lovest  music,  it  appears  ! 
Approach,  then,  and  sit  here  by  me.  So  we  shall 
enjoy  it  together,  the  heavenly  science." 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTIST E.         41 

Soon  a  warm  affection  sprang  up  between  this 
odd  pair,  —  the  little  ragamuffin  and  the  ancient 
monk.  Seeing  that  the  lad  was  full  of  nervous 
energy,  which  vented  itself  in  constant  pranks  and 
misdemeanors,  the  good  / 'rate  thought  it  well  to  turn 
this  energy  in  some  useful  direction.  He  taught 
him  the  rudiments  of  music,  taught  him  the  guitar, 
and  perhaps  other  things  besides,  though  the  boy 
may  have  learned  to  read  and  write  elsewhere. 
Little  Jean  Baptiste  was  so  clever  with  his  guitar, 
and  played  so  charmingly,  that  other  people  began 
to  take  notice  of  him,  —  notably  the  great  Chevalier 
de  Guise,  who  chanced  to  come  a-visiting  in  Florence 
at  that  time,  and  who  thought  here  was  a  new 
plaything.  It  would  be  a  pretty  amusement  to 
take  this  lad  to  France  and  have  him  educated. 
Accordingly,  Jean  Baptiste  was  duly  enrolled  in 
the  Chevalier's  train,  and  bade  farewell  to  Florence 
and  his  good  old  friend  the  monk,  who,  we  may 
believe,  missed  him  sorely,  and  played  only  sad 
tunes  thereafter  on  his  guitar. 

But  the  Chevalier  de  Guise  was  a  very  busy  man, 
and  there  were  many  more  amusements  in  Paris 
than  there  had  been  in  Florence.  He  had  no  time 
to  attend  to  the  musical  education  of  this  little 
Italian  monkey  who  played  the  guitar.  What 
should  he  do  with  him  ?  Tiens  !  there  was  Made- 
moiselle de  Montpensier,  the  (jrande  Mademoiselle , 
who  was  always  wanting  new  playthings,  and  with 
whom  the  Chevalier  particularly  wished  to  stand 


42      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

well.  This  ten-year  old  musician,  with  his  funny 
broken  French,  would  be  sure  to  amuse  her.  That 
was  the  one  thing  to  do  for  those  weary  great 
people,  —  to  amuse  them.  So  Jean  Baptiste,  who 
did  look  a  good  deal  like  a  monkey,  with  little 
sharp  black  eyes  and  a  grotesque  face,  was  dressed 
up  in  a  new  suit  of  clothes  and  given,  to  the 
princess,  just  as  if  he  had  been  a  pug  or  a  parrot, 
or  a  real  little  marmoset,  instead  of  only  a  common 
human  boy.  And  the  princess  was  delighted  with 
him.  He  talked  his  funny  jargon,  and  strummed 
his  tunes,  and  sang  his  little  songs,  and  was  the 
most  amusing  plaything  in  the  world,  —  really  for 
nearly  six  months  !  But  the  poor  foolish  child  did 
not  know  any  better  than  to  learn  French,  —  to 
speak  it  almost  like  other  people,  being  extremely 
quick  and  clever.  And  then,  naturally  enough,  the 
princess  did  not  care  anything  more  about  him ; 
she  was  really  tired  of  him  in  any  case,  and  some- 
body else  gave  her  another  present,  —  a  spaniel,  it 
might  be,  with  lovely  drooping  ears,  or  a  Persian 
cat.  So  nobody  looked  at  Jean  Baptiste  any  more, 
and  nobody  cared  to  hear  him  sing  or  play.  He 
drifted  from  boudoir  to  salon, '  from  salon  to  ante- 
chamber, down  and  down,  till  he  finally  found  a 
place  in  the  kitchens,  and  became  a  little  scullion, 
kicked  and  cuffed  about  by  the  cooks,  and  made  to 
scour  greasy  pans,  scrub  floors,  and  turn  meats  on 
the  spit.  A  mischievous  and  thievish  scullion  he 
was,  playing  tricks  on  every  one,  from  the  cooks 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTE.         43 

up  to-  the  chief  butler  himself.  Another  kitchen- 
boy,  called  Petit-Pierre,  was  his  sworn  comrade  ; 
and  many  a  fowl  was  stolen  from  the  spit  or  oven, 
and  many  a  wild  carouse  did  these  two  hold  in  the 
cellar,  with  their  chicken  or  pheasant,  and  a  bottle 
of  the  Duke  of  Orle'ans'  choice  old  wine,  which 
H.  K.  H.  had  not  presented  to  them. 

Five  years  did  Jean  Baptiste  spend  in  the  kitchens 
of  the  great  Mademoiselle ;  but  he  did  other  things 
besides  turning  meat  and  scouring  pans.  All  the 
time  his  music  burned  within  him.  He  had  his 
guitar  ,•  but  that  was  not  enough,  —  he  pined  for  a 
violin.  The  good  monk  in  Florence  had  also  given 
him  a  little  acquaintance  with  the  queen  of  instru- 
ments. "  Petit-Pierre  !  I  must  have  a  violin.  It 
is  a  question  of  my  life  !  But  how  shall  I  get  it  ?  " 

"Courage!"  said  Petit-Pierre.  "Thou  shalt 
have  thy  violin.  Come  with  me  into  the  wine 
cellar  to-night,  and  we  will  arrange  it." 

At  midnight,  when  all  in  the  great  house  were 
asleep,  from  Mademoiselle  on  her  gold-fringed 
pillow,  dreaming  of  Lauzun,  to  the  cook  on  his 
straw  pallet,  the  two  lads  crept  noislessly  into  the 
cellar.  It  was  a  huge  vault,  damp  and  cobwebby. 
How  they  got  in  I  know  not,  whether  by  stolen 
keys,  or  by  burrowing  like  veritable  rats  under  the 
door;  but  there  they  were.  On  all  sides  were 
shelves,  bins,  racks,  all  full  of  bottles,  —  precious, 
some  of  them,  as  if  their  contents  were  potable 
gold. 


44      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   CO  CRT. 

"  Softly  now,  Jean  Baptiste  !  Let  us  take  one 
only  from  each  shelf,  so  they  will  never  be  missed ; 
for  the  fat  old  fellow  will  think  he  has  taken  them 
himself.  Parllen  !  he  often  cannot  tell,  wheti  he 
leaves  this  place,  whether  he  has  one  bottle  or 
three  beneath  his  girdle.  So,  now  !  the  oldest 
ones  are  worth  most  money ;  I  heard  him  say  so." 

Whispering  and  chuckling,  these  two  very 
naughty  young  scamps  possessed  themselves  of 
half-a-dozen  bottles,  and  got  out  as  they  came  in, 
without  mishap.  Next  day  the  bottles  were 
promptly  converted  into  gold,  and  before  another 
midnight  Jean  Baptiste  had  his  violin,  and  was 
happy. 

One  day,  when  the  boys  were  about  fifteen,  it 
chanced  that  they  were  left  alone  in  the  great 
kitchen  to  mind  the  roast.  Report  says  nothing 
of  where  the  other  servants  were,  —  perhaps  they 
were  gone  to  mass;  perhaps  the  Queen  had  come  to 
visit  her  cousin,  and  they  were  all  on  the  back 
stairs,  trying  to  catch  a  peep  at  royalty.  At  all 
events,  they  were  not  in  the  kitchen.  The  roast 
was  a  very  large  one,  — perhaps  a  baron  of  beef  ;  a 
cut  corresponding  to  the  saddle  of  mutton,  and 
rarely  seen  save  in  great  houses  like  this.  It 
roasted  very  slowly ;  very,  very  slowly.  It  Avas 
tiresome  work,  this  everlasting  turning  and  bast- 
ing, basting  and  turning.  "  Tiens  ! "  said  Jean 
Baptiste,  "  I  will  bring  my  violin,  and  play  to  the 
beast ;  perhaps  he  will  roast  faster.  Who  knows?  " 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  DAPTISTE.          45 

He  brought  the  violin  and  played,  while  Petit- 
Pierre  turned  the  baron.  If  I  were  a  painter,  I 
think  I  could  make  a  picture  out  of  the  scene- 
The  vast  kitchen,  with  its  stone  floor  worn  into 
hollows  here  and  there  by  centuries  of  treading; 
the  narrow  barred  windows,  letting  in  the  light  in 
long  yellow  rays  which  pierce  rather  than  dispel 
the  gloom.  The  chief  light  comes  from  the  huge 
lire  glowing  on  the  hearth ;  it  leaps  and  crackles, 
throwing  great  tongues  of  flame  up  the  wide  black 
chimney-throat.  The  flickering  light  gleams  here 
and  there  in  bright  reflection,  now  thrown  back 
from  copper  vessels  hanging  in  goodly  array  on 
the  walls,  now  from  the  bit  of  cracked  looking- 
glass  in  which  Colette,  the  youngest  kitchen-maid, 
loves  to  steal  a  glance,  to  see  if  her  cap  be  straight, 
and  her  kerchief  becomingly  arrayed.  In  the  full 
glow  of  this  great  fire  sit  the  two  boys  on  their  low 
stools,  their  faces  crimson  with  the  glare,  their  caps 
and  aprons  gleaming  warm  and  white.  One  of 
them,  he  with  the  small  sharp  eyes  "  lit  with  a 
sombre  fire,"  is  playing,  and  has  forgotten  earth 
and  heaven  ;  the  other,  bending  forward,  turns  and 
turns  the  huge  piece  of  beef,  which  is  browning 
slowly,  and  which  sputters  and  hisses  and  sends 
savory  odors  through  the  whole  room.  On  and  on 
plays  Jean  Baptiste  ;  the  violin  sings  under  his 
hand  like  a  living  thing,  for  he  has  not  been 
practising  three  years  for  nothing.  Xow  it  wails 
and  laments,  in  melting  tones  that  the  nightingale 


46      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

might  answer ;  now  it  shrieks  in  elfin  merriment, 
the  bow  leaping  over  the  strings  like  a  dancing 
sprite,  all  joy  and  mirth  and  lightness.  Slower 
and  slower  revolves  the  reeking  baron  on  the  spit ; 
lower  and  lower  droops  the  basting-spoon  in  Petit- 
Pierre's  hand.  The  boy  listens  spell-bound,  till  he 
too  forgets  that  the  world  holds  anything  save 
Jean  Baptiste  and  his  fiddle  ;  the  ladle  drops  to 
the  floor  unnoticed,  and  the  music  and  the  fire 
have  it  all  their  own  way. 

Suddenly  a  heavy  hand  is  laid  on  the  player's 
shoulder.  He  starts  violently,  comes  back  to 
earth,  looks  up  terror-stricken,  expecting  to  meet 
the  angry  eyes  of  Gros-Jean,  the  cook.  Instead  of 
which  here  is  a  fine  gentleman,  all  in  lace  and 
satin,  who  smiles  kindly  on  the  terrified  boy, 
and  bids  him  follow  him  at  once.  So  Jean  Bap- 
tiste  leaves  the  kitchen,  never  to  return ;  for  this 
fine  gentleman  was  the  Comte  de  Nogent,  one  of 
the  princess's  train.  From  his  rooms  he  had 
heard  the  sound  of  music,  and  had  followed  it 
down  and  down,  being  of  an  inquiring  turn  of 
mind,  till  he  came  to  the  kitchen,  where  he  had 
stood  listening  in  amazement  to  this  wonderful 
scullion.  He  now  carried  Jean  Baptiste  straight 
to  the  princess,  who  had  not  thought  of  her  former 
plaything  for  five  good  years,  and  commanded 
him  to  play.  Mademoiselle  listened  ;  was  amazed, 
enchanted,  carried  away.  "  They  gave  me  a 
master,"  says  Lully  himself ;  "  I  soon  became  skil- 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTE.         47 

fill,  and  was  a  master  in  my  turn."  But  you  will 
be  very  sorry  to  hear  that  the  roast  was  entirely 
spoiled,  being  burned  as  black  as  a  coal  on  one  side, 
and  nearly  raw  on  the  other.  I  do  not  know  what 
the  princess  had  for  dinner  that  day,  but  she 
certainly  had  no  baron  of  beef;  and  Petit-Pierre 
was  soundly  flogged  and  chased  out  of  the  house  by 
the  indignant  cook,  and  was  not  heard  of  again  for 
many  a  long  year. 

Lully  stayed  four  years  more  with  Mademoiselle 
de  Montpensier.  He  was  made  a  member  of  her 
band,  and  soon  distanced  all  the  other  violinists. 
He  might  have  stayed  yet  longer,  but  the  spirit  of 
mischief  was  too  strong  in  him.  Seeing,  as  all 
the  world  saw,  the  little  absurdities  of  his  great 
mistress,  Lully  thought  proper  to  "  take  them  off  " 
in  a  satirical  song,  composed  for  the  benefit  of  his 
fellow-musicians.  But  it  was  too  funny  to  be  kept 
quiet,  or  else  there  was  some  ill-disposed  person 
among  the  band.  It  came  all  too  quickly  to  Made- 
moiselle's ears,  and  the  clever  youth  was  instantly 
dismissed.  By  this  time,  however,  Lully  was  nine- 
teen, and  his  name  was  already  well  known.  The 
King  sent  for  him,  and  on  hearing  him  play,  en- 
gaged him  at  once.  Soon  he  found  that  the  young 
man  could  not  only  play  divinely,  but  that  the 
most  charming  airs  he  played  were  of  his  own 
composition.  Here  was  a  treasure  for  a  music- 
loving  monarch.  A  new  band  was  composed 
especially  for  Lully,  "  Les  petits  violons,"  a  small 


48      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

company  of  first-class  players,  so  called  to  dis- 
tinguisli  them  from  the  great  band  of  forty.  Our 
Jean  Baptiste  now  went  on  from  one  success  to 
another.  At  twenty-five  lie  was  appointed  composer 
of  the  court  ballets, — those  popular  poetical  jig- 
gings  in  which  Louis  the  Great  loved  to  figure  and 
at  once  display  his  fine  proportions  and  listen  to  the 
praises  of  his  glory.  Will  my  readers  kindly  try 
to  imagine  Queen  Victoria,  at  any  period  of  her 
life,  dancing  in  a  ballet  ?  or  Emperor  William,  or 
Humbert  the  Good  ?  Fashions  do  change  so ! 

In  thirteen  years  Lully  composed  thirty  ballets 
and  a  number  of  operas,  twenty  of  the  latter  in  all 
having  come  from  his  pen.  He  was  made  super- 
intendent of  the  royal  chamber  music,  and  then 
Master  of  Music  to  the  royal  family  itself ;  finally, 
he  received  letters  of  nobility  from  the  king,  and 
called  himself  M.  de  Lully.  In  connection  with 
this  honor,  an  amusing  anecdote  is  told  by  M. 
Adam,  in  his  "Recollections  of  a  Musician." 

Some  obliging  busybody  came  to  Lully  one  day 
and  caid  to  him,  "It  is  very  fortunate  for  you  that 
his  Majesty  has  allowed  you  to  dispense  with  the 
customary  formality  of  being  appointed  a  royal 
secretary,  for  several  of  the  secretaries  have 
declared  that  they  would  not  receive  you  among 
them."  This  was  enough  for  the  ambitious  and 
insatiable  Lully.  He  would  be  a  secretary,  or  perish 
in  the  attempt.  The  means  he  took  to  this  end 
were  wholly  characteristic.  A  representation  of  the 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTE.          49 

"  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme "  of  Moliere  was  to  be 
given  at  court.  Lully  had  composed  the  music 
(of  which  a  good  deal  is  called  for  in  the  play), 
and  it  had  been  played  before  with  great  success. 
Lully  himself  was  an  admirable  buffoon,  though 
only  his  friends  knew  it.  Moliere  had  said  to  him 
more  than  once,  "  Come,  Lully !  come  and  make  us 
laugh."  He  resolved  to  turn  this  talent  to  profit 
by  exhibiting  it  before  the  king,  who  had  no  suspi- 
cion of  it.  "  His  grotesque  physiognomy,"  says  M. 
Adam,  "  seemed  created  expressly  for  burlesque." 
He  was  short  and  rather  stout,  and  very  negligent 
of  his  person  ;  indeed,  AVC  are  told  that  it  was  not 
uncommon,  when  he  was  playing,  for  his  ruffles  to 
drop  off,  as  they  were  seldom  fastened  to  the 
sleeves,  —  sometimes,  indeed,  they  dropped  to  pieces, 
showing  themselves  to  be  mere  rags  of  former 
finery.  The  little  red-rimmed  eyes,  which  one 
hardly  saw,  yet  which  burned  with  a  sombre  fire, 
betokened  at  once  humor  and  malignity.  His 
whole  face  was  of  a  comic  character,  and  a  stranger 
on  first  seeing  him  might  have  been  inclined  to 
laugh  at  him,  had  not  the  keenness  of  his  glance 
shown  that  he  was  fully  capable  of  turning  the 
laugh  upon  any  one  who  should  attempt  to 
ridicule  him.  Without  telling  any  one,  Lully  had 
resolved  to  take  himself  the  character  of  the  Mufti, 
and  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  King  by  his 
extravagances.  Unhappily  for  him,  the  King  was 
in  a  bad  humor  that  day,  and  nothing  could 

4 


50      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

chase  the  gloom  from  his  Olympian  brow.  The  play 
proceeded  amid  a  frigid  silence,  for  no  one  dared 
to  laugh  when  Majesty  frowned,  and  not  one  of  the 
comedians  could  draw  even  an  approving  glance 
from  the  Great  King.  Finally  the  scene  in  the 
fourth  act  was  reached,  in  which  the  unhappy  M. 
Jourdain,  the  butt  of  all  who  surround  him,  is  to  be 
invested  with  the  title  of  Mamamouchi,  supposed 
to  be  one  of  the  highest  honors  in  the  gift  of  the 
Grand  Turk.  The  rascally  Covielle,  his  son's 
valet,  in  order  to  extract  money  from  M.  Jourdain, 
tells  him  that  his  son  has  become  betrothed  to 
the  daughter  of  the  Grand  Turk,  and  that  that 
potentate  desires  to  bestow  upon  him,  Jourdain, 
this  exalted  rank. 

Accordingly,  Lully,  attired  as  the  Mufti,  ap- 
peared, with  his  attendant  Turks  and  dervishes, 
and  the  ceremony  of  initiation  began.  He  had 
muffled  his  head  in  an  enormous  turban  nearly  five 
feet  high,  so  that  his  head  appeared  to  be  in  the 
middle  of  his  body.  His  little  eyes  blinked  and 
winked  in  the  most  ridiculous  manner,  and  alto- 
gether his  whole  appearance  was  so  irresistibly 
comic  that  at  sight  of  him  a  murmur  of  surprise 
was  heard,  followed  by  a  general  desire  to  laugh, 
which  was,  however,  summarily  checked  when  it 
was  seen  that  the  king  was  not  laughing.  Lully 
saw  the  danger  of  his  position,  and  redoubled  his 
efforts.  At  the  words  "Dara  Bastonara"  it  is 
customary  for  the  Mufti  to  give  several  blows  to 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  DAPTISTE.         51 

the  unhappy  neophyte  (who  is  on  his  hands  and 
knees,  a  huge  tome,  representing  the  Koran,  resting 
on  his  back)  with  the  flat  edge  of  a  sabre,  howling 
meanwhile  in  a  most  absurd  gibberish.  What  was 
the  amazement  of  the  actor  playing  the  part  of 
Jourdain  when  the  Mufti  raised  the  great  book 
high  in  air,  and  brought  it  down  with  a  tremendous 
whack  on  his  back!  M.  Jourdain  bore  the  blow 
manfully;  but  when  a  shower  of  thumps  and  bangs 
descended  on  his  back  and  head,  he  lost  patience, 
and  whispered,  "  Stop  this  nonsense,  or  I  '11  knock 
you  down!"  "That  is  just  what  I  want,"  replied 
Lully,  who  from  the  corner  of  his  eyes  had  espied 
a  dawning  smile  on  the  royal  lips.  "  Beat  me  as 
hard  as  you  possibly  can ! "  The  enraged  actor 
required  no  second  bidding.  Springing  to  his  feet, 
he  rushed  upon  his  tormentor,  and  aimed  a  tre- 
mendous blow  at  him ;  but  Lully,  quickly  lower- 
ing his  head,  received  the  blow  on  the  end  of  his 
enormous  turban.  Then  followed  a  scene  which 
beggars  description.  Again  and  again  the  unhappy 
Jourdain,  foaming  with  rage,  rushed  forward; 
again  and  again  the  Mufti,  lowering  his  head  like 
a  ram,  received  him  on  the  turban,  and  butted  him 
to  the  other  end  of  the  stage.  By  this  time  the 
whole  audience  was  shrieking  and  screaming  with 
laughter,  and  the  high  and  mighty  monarch  was 
rocking  from  side  to  side,  wiping  the  tears  from  his 
eyes,  and  laughing  as  he  had  never  laughed. before. 
Finally  the  raging  victim  determined  to  try  another 


52      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

move.  Springing  to  one  side  as  the  battering  tur- 
ban advanced,  he  made  a  sudden  rush  at  close 
quarters,  thinking  to  seize  his  adversary  round  the 
body.  But  not  for  nothing  had  Jean  Baptiste 
wrestled  with  Petit-Pierre  in  the  kitchen  of  Mont- 
pensier.  Flinging  himself  on  the  ground,  Lully 
tripped  up  poor  Jourdain  with  such  dexterity  that 
the  latter  found  himself  sitting  astride  of  the  tur- 
ban, facing  the  screaming  audience ;  while  our 
hero,  lightly  extricating  himself,  staggered  for- 
ward, and  pretending  to  fall,  leaped  over  the  stage 
front  down  into  the  harpsichord  which  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  orchestra.  This  was  his  crowning 
feat.  He  played  a  thousand  fantastic  pranks  in 
his  apparent  frantic  struggles  to  get  out,  and  finally 
smashing  the  poor  instrument  in  pieces,  he  leaped 
back  with  simian  agility  to  the  stage,  and  the  cur- 
tain descended  amid  thunders  of  applause. 

When  the  play  was  over,  the  King,  weary  and 
aching  with  laughter,  was  descending  the  stairs, 
when  lo !  there  stood  the  incomparable  Lully,  with 
a  face  a  yard  long,  gazing  at  him  with  eyes  of 
tragic  melancholy.  "  Alas !  Sire,"  he  said,  when 
Louis  overwhelmed  him  with  praise,  "am  I  indeed, 
as  your  Majesty  so  graciously  says,  the  funniest 
man  in  France  ?  That  is  the  very  cause  of  my 
sorrow.  It  has  been  the  hope  of  my  heart  to 
become  one  of  your  Majesty's  secretaries ;  but  the 
other  secretaries  will  not  receive  me,  because  I  am 
a  play-actor."  And  he  heaved  a  sigh  as  deep  as  a 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTE.          53 

draw-well  !  "  How  ! "  cried  he  of  Olympus.  "  They 
will  not  receive  you,  forsooth !  It  will  be  too  much 
honor  for  them.  Go  to  the  chancellor  at  once,  and 
say  I  sent  you.  I  give  you  the  place  from  this 
instant,  and  a  pension  of  twelve  hundred  francs 
besides  ! " 

•'•  What  a  fine  thing,"  says  M.  Adam,  "  is  an  abso- 
lute monarchy  !  Twelve  hundred,  francs'  pension, 
for  jumping  into  a  harpsichord  !  If  pensions  could 
be  had  to-day  at  this  price,  all  the  manufactories 
of  Erard  and  Broadwood  could  not  supply  the 
demand  ! " 

The  next  day  Lully  flew  to  Chancellor  Le  Tellier, 
who,  despite  the  royal  commands,  received  him 
with  a  very  bad  grace.  Thence  he  went  to  Louvois, 
who  reproached  him  with  his  boldness,  telling  him 
that  the  place  of  secretary  was  wholly  unsuitable 
for  him,  who  had  no  other  merit  or  recommenda- 
tion than  that  of  making  people  laugh.  "  Eh,  tet e- 
bleu  ! "  replied  Lully,  "  you  would  do  the  same  if 
you  knew  how."  The  King,  hearing  of  these  diffi- 
culties, issued  a  command  that  the  Florentine  was 
to  be  received,  if  the  sky  fell;  and  after  that  no 
murmurs  were  heard.  On  the  day  of  his  reception, 
Lully  gave  a  magnificent  supper  to  the  other  secre- 
taries, and  afterwards  "  treated  them  "  to  the  opera, 
where  his  "Triumph  of  Love"  was  given  with 
great  splendor.  It  was  a  singular  sight :  the 
theatre  filled  with  all  manner  of  gilded  human 
frippery,  and  in  the  front  row  thirty  or  forty  grave 


54      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

men  in  black  cloaks  and  broad-brimmed  hats, 
listening  with  sombre  gravity  to  the  roulades  and 
cadenzas  of  the  new  royal  secretary.  A  day  or  t\vo 
after,  Louvois  met  our  hero  at  Versailles,  and  with 
grave  irony  saluted  him  with  "  Bon  jour,  mon  con- 
frere ! "  "  Good  day,  my  colleague  ! "  This  was 
instantly  taken  up  as  a  witticism  of  the  great  min- 
ister ;  and  poor  Lully  could  not  make  his  appear- 
ance anywhere  in  fashionable  society  without  a 
chorus  of  "Bonjour,  mon  confrere!"  assailing  him 
on  every  side. 

After  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes  it 
seemed  for  a  time  as  if  there  might  be  an  end  to 
the  gayeties.  At  first  all  the  gilded  butterflies 
turned  up  their  eyes  and  held  up  their  hands,  and 
blessed  God  for  this  great  and  pious  deed;  that 
was  when  it  seemed  only  to  affect  the  people,  who 
were  of  no  consequence  whatever.  The  slaughter- 
ing of  a  few  thousand  miserable  heretics,  the  driv- 
ing out  of  thousands  more,  —  what  did  that  matter 
at  Versailles  ?  But  if  our  gayeties  were  to  be  inter- 
fered with  by  all  this  piety ;  if  we  were  all  to  be 
turned  into  monks  and  nuns,  with  only  masses  and 
vespers  by  way  of  entertainment,  —  what  was  to  be 
done  in  such  a  case  ?  It  was  too  horrible  to  think 
of.  The  King  was  becoming  every  day  moVe  devout, 
and  who  could  wonder  at  it?  Instead  of  good 
easy  Pere  La  Chaise  to  smooth  down  his  con- 
science and  make  things  spiritually  pleasant  for 
him,  here  was  the"  sombre,  hideous  face  of  Pere  Le 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTS.         55 

Tellier  always  at  his  elbow,  whispering  of  sin  and 
hell  and  all  sorts  of  horrid  things  that  should  never 
be  spoken  of  to  kings.  Here,  too,  instead  of  the 
lovely,  tender  La  Valliere,  or  the  flashing,  splendid 
Montespan,  was  the  veiled  and  hooded  figure  of 
the  uncrowned  queen,  crucifix  in  hand,  with  the 
fire  of  fanaticism  burning  in  her  heart.  What 
a  deplorable  prospect  for  a  butterfly  court !  But 
Franchise  d'Aubigne,  fanatic  though  she  might  be, 
was  no  fool ;  and  when  whispers  of  this  sort  came 
to  her  ears,  as  come  they  did  —  ask  me  not  how  ! 
How  do  the  whispers  come  anywhere  ?  "A  bird  of 
the  air  shall  carry  it;  the  rushes  by  the  brooks 
shall  whisper,  '  Midas  has  ass's  ears  ! ' '  When,  I 
say,  the  divinity  of  Marly  heard  these  whispers, 
she  saw  at  once  that  they  portended  evil.  The 
King  must  be  drawn  from  his  sombre  thoughts; 
he  must  smile  once  more,  and  the  court  must  be 
amused.  It  need  not  interfere  with  the  great 
work,  the  extirpation  of  heresy ;  on  the  contrary, 
it  was  important  for  that  work  that  the  upper 
classes — the  people  who  might  begin  to  think,  if 
they  had  no  longer  any  dancing  —  should  be 
amused.  What  should  she  do  to  set  the  gilded 
ball  rolling  once  more  ?  A  lottery  ?  — that  cost  so 
much,  and  was  so  soon  over.  A  comedy?  Mo- 
liere  was  dead,  and  Racine  was  not  amusing  enough. 
Suddenly  Madame  remembered  Lully ;  remem- 
bered, too,  that  she  had  heard  the  King  say  some- 
thing about  a  new  opera  which  Lully  and  Quinault 


56      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

were  writing,  and  of  which  he  himself  had  chosen 
the  subject.  Happy  thought!  if  this  opera  could 
be  finished  out  of  hand,  and  produced  within  a 
week,  it  would  be  the  very  thing.  But  in  order  to 
this,  it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to  speak  per- 
sonally with  one  of  these  unhallowed  persons,  com- 
poser or  playwright.  So  be  it !  She  was  ready  to 
sacrifice  herself  for  the  cause.  She  obtained  abso- 
lution, and  resolved  to  send  for  Lully. 

Jean  Baptiste  was  supping  with  a  party  of 
friends  at  a  tavern,  and  enjoying  himself  very 
much  indeed,  when  a  message  came  from  his  wife, 
saying  that  he  must  come  home  at  once,  as  a  car- 
riage from  the  court  had  come,  and  was  waiting  to 
take  him  to  Versailles.  "  Oh  ! "  he  said  to  himself, 
"  it  is  only  a  trick  of  Madeleine  to  get  me  home, 
because  she  thinks  I  have  stayed  long  enough.  I 
will  go  and  see,  however,  and  if  I  find  it  is  so,  I 
won't  go  home  for  a  week,  I  vow."  He  went  growl- 
ing, and,  I  fear,  reeling,  home  (for  there  had  been 
plenty  of  wine  at  the  supper)  ;  and  there,  in  very 
truth,  was  a  stately  coach  waiting  for  him.  He 
tumbled  in,  fell  asleep,  and  did  not  wake  till  he 
reached  Versailles.  Here  he  was  met  by  a  black- 
robed  abbe,  with  downcast  eyes,  who  informed  him 
that  he,  the  abbe,  was  charged  to  conduct  him  to 
a  lady  who  desired  to  speak  with  him  in  private. 
Lully  at  once  thought  that  some  fair  dame  of  qual- 
ity had  been  smitten  with  his  charms  (which  were 
certainly  singular).  He  cast  a  rueful  glance  at  his 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAX  BAPTISTS.         57 

shabby  coat,  his  torn  and  soiled  ruffles,  ran  his 
fingers  through  his  dishevelled  wig,  and  assumed 
'  an  expression  of  rapture. 

After  winding  in  and  out  of  endless  passages, 
in  a  part  of  the  palace  wholly  unfamiliar  to  him, 
he  found  himself  at  length  in  a  room  simply  and 
severely  furnished,  with  many  pictures  of  saints 
adorning  the  walls.  He  wondered  more  and  more 
what  this  might  mean.  The  door  opened,  and  a 
lady  of  imposing  mien  entered.  Lully,  not  recog- 
nizing her  (thanks  to  his  near-sightedness),  threw 
himself  at  her  feet  with  a  lover's  ardor.  But  for- 
tunately Madame  de  Maiutenou  —  for  it  was  the 
great  lady  herself  —  mistook  his  meaning;  and 
though  somewhat  surprised,  found  it  still  not  un- 
natural that  a  sinner  like  this  man,  who  spent  much 
of  his  time  with  excommunicated  persons,  should 
be  overcome  in  the  presence  of  such  virtue  as  hers. 
Such  an  occasion  for  rebuke  was  not  to  be  lost. 

"  M.  de  Lully,"  she  said,  "  I  hear  that  you  lead 
a  reprehensible  life." 

Lully  started  violently;  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  voice,  which  he  knew  perfectty  well,  and  he 
saw  that  he  was  making  a  fool  of  himself.  "I, 
Madame  ?  "  he  replied  respectfully.  "  Xot  at  all ! 
I  lead  the  opera,  that  is  all." 

"I  know,"  replied  the  great  lady,  "that  your 
position  brings  you  necessarily  in  contact  with 
many  persons  of  bad  reputation ;  but  the  King  is 
nevertheless  much  displeased  with  you,  and  you 


58   GLIMPSES  OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

will  not  find  it  easy  to  reinstate  yourself  in  his 
good  graces." 

The  musician  was  overwhelmed.  What  had  he 
done,  —  what  could  he  have  done?  It  was  per- 
fectly true  that  the  King,  who  had  given  him 
everything,  could  take  away  everything  with  a 
single  word.  He  was  speechless  with  dismay. 

Seeing  that  she  had  made  her  point,  Madame  de 
Maintenon  continued:  "Now,  as  to  the  means  of 
recovering  the  royal  favor,  it  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary that  a  new  opera  be  given  one  week  from 
to-day.  Give  us  the  one  which  you  are  now  com- 
posing at  the  King's  request,  and  I  have  little  doubt 
that  your  misdemeanors  will  be  forgiven." 

Lully  started  to  his  feet,  all  the  musician  afire 
within  him.  "  In  eight  days,  my  '  Armide  ! '  "  he 
cried.  "  Oh,  Madame,  it  is  impossible !  I  have  a 
whole  act  yet  to  compose,  and  Quinault  finds  it 
impossible  to  keep  up  with  the  changes  I  am  con- 
stantly proposing  to  him." 

"  You  must  do  the  last  act  more  quickly,"  said 
Madame,  "or  else  give  us  what  you  have  ready 
now,  and  omit  the  rest." 

The  great  lady  was  evidently  not  a  musician.  "  I 
mutilate  rny  masterpiece,  —  give  it  piecemeal !  " 
cried  poor  Lully.  "Oh,  no,  Madame  !  His  Majesty 
may  be  angry  if  he  will,  but  in  a  month  I  can 
have  the  '  Armide '  ready.  You  do  not  know, 
Madame,  it  is  the  finest  thing  I  have  ever  done. 
It  contains  —  " 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTS.         59 

"Very  well,  Monsieur,  let  us  speak  of  it  no 
more.  I  know  that  Lalande  is  writing  an  opera, 
and  little  Marais  has  been  tormenting  me  for  a 
long  time  to  persuade  the  'King  to  hear  some  of 
his  music.  Either  of  them  will  only  too  gladly 
be  ready  within  the  time  specified." 

"  What,  Madame !  other  music  than  mine  be 
played  before  his  Majesty  ?  Never !  You  shall  have 
an  opera,  but  it  will  not  be  the  'Armide.'" 

"I  care  nothing  whatever  about  your  'Armide.' 
I  want  an  opera,  that  is  all." 

"Very  well,  Madame!  in  eight  days  you  shall 
have  an  opera,  —  ballet  music  by  Lully,  words  by 
Quinault.  Will  you  graciously  suggest  a  subject 
for  it?" 

"  Sir,"  said  Virtuous  Austerity,  drawing  herself 
up  with  dignity,  "you  know  well  that  I  do  not 
meddle  with  such  affairs." 

"  Pardon,  Madame  ! "  replied  the  wily  Florentine, 
in  wheedling  tones.  "  The  King  has  done  this  for 
me ;  it  seems  wholly  appropriate  that  you  should 
do  it  also.  'Armide'  will  be  the  opera  of  the 
King ;  this  would  be  the  opera  of  the  — "  He 
paused,  fearing  he  might  have  gone  too  far. 

But  there  was  no  frown  on  the  dignified  face ;  on 
the  contrary,  the  great  lady  smiled  benevolently, 
and  replied,  "  So  be  it ;  the  opera  shall  be  your 
reconciliation,  and  it  shall  be  called  '  The  Temple 
of  Peace.' " 

The  eight  days  were  over.    The  opera  was  ready, 


60      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

the  audience  was  assembled,  the  final  moment  had 
arrived.  Lully,  who  had  worked  like  a  galley- 
slave,  thought  everything  was  in  perfect  order, 
when  suddenly,  as  he  'stood  to  take  a  final  glance 
at  the  stage  setting,  he  saw  that  one  blunder  had 
been  made.  Of  course,  in  eight  days  one  cannot 
prepare  very  elaborate  scenery ;  that  is  easily 
understood.  There  was  an  old  piece  —  a ''Temple 
of  Wisdom"  —  which  had  been  used  in  some  former 
opera.  This,  with  a  good  deal  of  new  paint  and 
gilding,  answered  very  well  for  "The  Temple  of 
Peace."  But  it  Avas  not  till  this  moment  that 
Lully  perceived  that  the  most  conspicuous  orna- 
ment on  the  front  of  the  temple  was  an  enormous 
owl, — the  favorite  bird  of  Minerva,  but  not  at  all 
appropriate  as  an  emblem  of  Glorious  Majesty.  It 
must  be  a  sun,  not  an  owl !  Away  with  it !  Bring  a 
scene-painter,  a  brush  am1  paint-pot,  some  gilding, 
quick !  Lully  tore  his  hair,  and  rushed  about  like 
a  madman,  dragging  the  astonished  decorator  in  by 
the  collar,  and  almost  kicking  him  up  the  ladder. 
But  quickly  as  he  worked,  it  was  all  too  slow. 
Twice  an  officer  of  the  guards  came  in  and  said, 
"  M.  de  Lully,  the  King  waits  !  "  It  was  frightful : 
such  a  thing  had  never  happened.  Once,  indeed, 
at  some  other  entertainment,  I  know  not  what, 
there  had  been  a  moment's  delay,  and  his  Majesty 
said  in  awful  tones,  "  I  have  almost  waited !  "  and 
the  whole  court  turned  green  with  horror.  But 
now,  now,  he  ivas  waiting ;  actually  sitting 


THE   STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTS.         61 

there,  with  nothing  to  look  at,  and  only  confused 
sounds  of  stamping  and  swearing  from  behind  the 
curtain  to  listen  to.  Does  not  the  horror  of  the 
scene  oppress  one  even  in  reading  of  it  ?  But 
Lully  was  really  having  a  dreadful  time  there ; 
and  when  the  guard  came  for  the  second  time,  lo ! 
the  Italian  pot  was  very  hot,  and  boiled  over  in 
right  Italian  fashion.  "  Eh,  ventrebleu !  "  cried 
the  manager,  "  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  The 
King  can  wait !  He  is  master  here,  and  no  one  has 
the  right  to  prevent  him  from  waiting  as  much  as 
he  likes ! "  It  was  not  a  very  remarkable  witti- 
cism, but  it  was  sufficiently  impudent  to  make  the 
bystanders  laugh,  and  to  make  his  Majesty  furious 
when  he  heard  it,  as,  of  course,  he  did  within  five 
minutes.  The  consequence  was  that  poor  Lully 
received  no  compliment  for  all  his  work,  and  it  was 
announced  that  the  opera  of  Lalande  would  be 
given  the  next  day. 

Lully  returned  to  Paris,  vowing  that  he  had  done 
with  royalty  and  its  fickleness.  Henceforward  he 
would  work  for  himself  and  glory,  and  for  his  good 
Parisians,  who  loved  him.  He  flung  himself  with 
fury  upon  his  "  Armide,"  and  worked  like  a  mad- 
inan  till  it  was  done ;  then  rehearsals  proceeded, 
and  soon  it  was  ready  for  the  stage.  It  was  his 
masterpiece,  and  he  knew  it,  and  hoped  everything 
from  its  success.  Everything,  down  to  the  mi- 
nutest detail,  had  received  his  personal  supervision. 

"  This  theatre,"    says   M.   Adam,    "  Lully  had 


62      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

created.  All  the  actors  were  his  pupils ;  he  alone 
had  formed  them,  not  only  in  the  art  of  singing, 
but  also  in  walking  and  gesticulating  ;  even  the 
dancers  received  excellent  advice  from  him.  He 
had  taught  all  the  musicians  of  the  orchestra,  for, 
before  him,  there  had  been  no  single  passable  instru- 
mental performer  in  France,  and  no  such  thing  as 
an  orchestra  had  existed.  He  was  the  first  to  intro- 
duce flutes,  hautboys,  bassoons,  and  to  combine 
them  with  the  violins ;  and  thanks  to  him,  the 
French  violinists  had  become  the  first  in  Europe. 

"  All  this  being  so,  not  a  musician  of  the  orchestra 
dared  murmur  before  him,  let  him  be  as  harsh  and 
brutal  as  he  would.  Besides,  they  all  knew  that 
his  anger  was  of  short  duration.  His  ear  was  so 
fine  that  he  could  hear  a  false  note  from  the 
farthest  end  of  the  theatre,  and  never  failed  to  dis- 
tinguish whence  it  came.  On  hearing  one,  he  was 
wont  to  fall  into  a  violent  rage,  rush  upon  the 
delinquent,  snatch  away  his  instrument,  and  some- 
times break  it  over  his  head.  By  the  time  the 
rehearsal  was  over,  however,  his  anger  was  for- 
gotten ;  he  begged  the  musician's  pardon,  took  him 
off  to  dine  with  him,  and  gave  him  money  for  a 
new  instrument  if  he  had  broken  the  old  one. 
Thus,  he  was  adored  by  all  his  employees,  who 
loved  his  person  as  much  as  they  admired  his 
talent." 

No  one  was  admitted  to  dress  rehearsals  save  a 
few  of  the  court  people,  whom  of  course  one  could 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTS.         63 

not  refuse.  This  time,  however,  not  one  of  them 
made  his  appearance.  The  Koyal  Sun  had  frowned 
upon  Lully,  and  who  else  should  dare  to  smile  ? 
"  So  much  the  better,"  said  the  composer,  with  an 
Italian  shrng ;  "  I  shall  not  be  troubled  with  their 
good  advice."  He  did,  however,  receive  one  appli- 
cation for  admission.  Some  one  wished  to  see 
him,  an  attendant  said,  who  would  not  give  his 
name.  "  Bah  !  "  said  Lully,  "  I  have  no  time  to 
see  any  one.  Let  him  send  in  his  name,  however, 
and  we  shall  see."  The  attendant  returned  in  a 
few  minutes,  with  a  dirty,  greasy  scrap  of  paper, 
on  which  was  scrawled,  "  An  old  friend."  "  Bah ! " 
said  the  composer  again;  "say  that  I  have  no 
friends  on  dress-rehearsal  days  !  "  and  he  went  on 
with  his  work.  The  next  day,  as  he  entered  the 
theatre,  another  dirty  note  was  handed  to  him, 
which  read  as  follows  :  "  Thou  wouldst  not  see  me 
yesterday ;  I  shall  wait  for  thee  this  evening  at 
the  end  of  thy  opera."  Lully  pondered  a  minute 
over  this,  then  tossed  it  away,  and  forgot  it.  This 
was  the  day  of  the  representation  of  the  master- 
piece, and  he  was  naturally  in  great  excitement. 
As  the  hour  approached,  the  theatre  began  to  fill, 
and  soon  the  main  body  of  the  house  was  occupied  ; 
but,  alas  !  the  front  benches,  where  the  court  people 
were  wont  to  sit,  the  boxes  from  which  the  sun 
and  moon  and  stars  were  graciously  pleased  to 
beam  upon  the  thrice  fortunate  scene,  were  empty, 
and  remained  so.  Lully  was  in  disgrace.  The 


64      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

good  burghers  of  Paris  were  much  alarmed.  What 
should  they  do  ?  They  loved  Lully  to  enthusiasm  ; 
but  how  could  they  applaud  his  work,  if  lie  lay  under 
the  royal  displeasure  ?  The  prologue  was  all  about 
Louis  and  his  glory.  —  of  course  that  they  could 
applaud,  and  did ;  but  after  that  the  plaudits  grew 
more  and  more  rare,  fainter  and  fainter.  Cheeks 
glowed  and  hearts  beat,  as  the  splendid  opera 
went  on  :  the  famous  Mademoiselle  le  Kochois,  as 
Armide,  acted  and  sang  as  she  had  never  done 
before  ;  everything  was  perfect  in  every  respect : 
but  the  curtain  fell  amid  a  gloomy  silence.  The 
people  were  afraid  to  show  their  enthusiasm,  and 
only  in  whispers,  as  they  Avent  home,  did  they  tell 
each  other  that  this  was  the  greatest  and  most 
wonderful  thing  they  had  ever  seen. 

Poor  Lully,  with  despair  at  his  heart,  was  leav- 
ing the  theatre,  when  he  felt  himself  pulled 
gently  by  the  sleeve.  He  turned,  and  saw  a  man, 
very  shabbily  dressed,  gazing  earnestly  upon  him. 
"  Leave  me  ! "  he  said  impatiently ;  "  I  can  do 
nothing  for  you." 

"  Baptiste,"  said  the  stranger,  "  1  wrote  you  that 
I  should  meet  you  after  the  opera.  Wait  a  mo- 
ment !  do  you  not  recognize  me  ?  " 

Lully  paused,  looked,  looked  again,  and  shook 
his  head. 

"  It  is  not  strange  !  "  said  the  other.  "  It  was 
forty  years  ago.  and  I  should  never  have  known 
you  if  I  had  not  heard  your  name.  We  loved 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTS.         65 

each  other  well,  though,  once  upon  a  time.  Do 
3'ou  remember  Petit-Pierre  ?  " 

"  Petit-Pierre  !  "  cried  Lnlly,  starting  as  if  from 
a  dream.  "  Are  you  —  can  you  be  ?  But  no,  it  is 
impossible  !  Petit-Pierre  is  dead ;  he  would  not 
have  left  me  for  forty  years  without  a  word  from 
him.  It  cannot  be." 

"  You  still  doubt  me  ?  "  said  the  stranger,  smil- 
ing. "  Listen,  then.  We  parted  in  1647 ;  I  was 
beaten  and  dismissed,  for  your  sake.  Have  you 
forgotten  ?  " 

"  Ah,  no,  no ;  I  remember  it  well !  "  cried  Lully. 
"  Yes,  I  know  you  now.  Come,  come  with  me  ;  we 
will  talk,  we  will  tell  each  other  everything  that 
has  happened  since  our  good  time,  the  time  when 
we  were  fifteen  !  Come,  my  poor  Pierre,  come  ! " 

Over  a  cup  of  good  wine  Petit-Pierre's  story  was 
soon  told.  He  had  remained  a  cook,  —  that  was  his 
vocation,  as  music  was  Jean  Baptiste's.  He  had 
even  been  thought  a  very  good  one.  For  many 
years  he  had  served  an  English  lord,  who  had  lately 
died  in  Italy,  leaving  him  a  small  pension.  Natu- 
rally he  had  returned  to  France,  —  to  Paris.  He 
had  heard  of  the  famous  Lully,  and  had  wondered 
if  it  could  be  his  poor  Baptiste ;  had  determined 
to  find  out.  Finally,  here  he  was.  Many  embrac- 
ings  followed ;  recollections  of  the  old  kitchen 
days,  of  old  pranks  and  jokes. 

And  then,  "  I  was  afraid  you  would  be  ashamed 
of  the  old  companion,  Baptiste  ! " 

5 


66      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

"  Ashamed  ?  Ha,  you  had  forgotten  my  char- 
acter. Tiensf  I  have  an  idea.  You  have  just 
returned  from  Italy,  from  the  country  of  music ; 
you  must  be  a  judge  of  it.  You  shall  hear  my 
opera,  my  chef  d'oeuvre,  my  (  Armide  ! '  It  shall  be 
given  for  you  and  me  alone.  You  shall  give  me 
your  opinion  of  it,  and,  in  turn,  you  shall  cook  me 
a  dish." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  cried  Petit-Pierre.  "  I  have 
the  whole  French  and  Italian  cuisine  at  my  fingers' 
ends." 

"  How  !  The  Italian  ! "  shrieked  Lully.  "  Come 
to  my  arms,  friend  of  my  heart !  Not  one  of  these 
confounded  Parisian  poisoners  can  make  a  macaroni 
that  has  common-sense  in  it." 

"Be  tranquil!"  said  the  cook.  "You  shall 
have  macaroni,  ravioli,  polenta,  to  your  heart's 
content." 

"To-morrow,"  rejoined  the  delighted  composer, 
"  we  will  dine  together  at  the  Cerceau-d'Or,  go  to 
see  my  'Armide,'  and  return  here  to  eat  the  supper 
that  you  shall  cook." 

The  opera  company  was  informed  that  a  repre- 
sentation would  be  given  the  next  evening,  to 
which  the  public  would  not  be  admitted.  Punctual 
to  the  hour,  Petit-Pierre  appeared,  and  was  pre- 
sented to  the  actors  as  a  great  Italian  nobleman,  an 
eminent  patron  of  music.  He  and  Lully  took  their 
places  in  the  middle  of  the  house,  and  the  opera 
began.  All  did  their  very  best  to  please  their 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTS.         67 

beloved  master.  Petit-Pierre  was  enchanted,  and 
applauded  furiously ;  the  composer,  delighted  at 
being  so  thoroughly  appreciated  by  his  old  comrade, 
and  conscious  of  the  great  merit  of  his  work,  could 
not  refrain  from  applauding  himself.  "  Bravo, 
Lully ! "  he  would  cry,  at  the  end  of  every  piece. 
"  You  have  never  done  anything  so  fine ;  you  are 
a  great  man ! "  He  paid  extravagant  compli- 
ments to  the  performers,  who  returned  them  with 
interest.  "  It  was,"  says  M.  Adam,  "a  real  family 
triumph."  And  Lully  was  prouder  of  having  won 
his  own  and  his  friend's  approval  than  if  the  King 
and  court  had  covered  him  with  laurels. 

When  the  great  performance  was  over,  the  two 
friends  went  off  arm  in  arm,  as  happy  as  kings, 
and  shut  themselves  up  in  a  room  where  Lully  had 
provided  everything  ready  for  the  preparation  of  a 
genuine  Italian  supper.  Petit-Pierre  set  to  work, 
"  the  one  musician  of  France,"  as  Boileau  called 
him,  acting  once  more  as  kitchen-boy.  Soon  all 
was  ready,  and  the  two  sat  down,  and  fell  to  eating 
and  drinking,  talking  and  laughing,  as  if  they  were 
fifteen  again,  instead  of  fifty-five.  At  the  end  of 
an  hour,  I  grieve  to  say,  they  were  rather  drunk. 
They  wept  with  tenderness,  they  swore  never  to 
part,  they  exhausted  themselves  in  praises  of  each 
other. 

"  Ah,  what  admirable  music  !  "  cried  Petit-Pierre. 

"What  delicious  macaroni!"  responded  Lully, 
with  his  mouth  full. 


68      GLIMPSES  OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

"  How  beautiful  it  was  ! " 

"  How  ggpd  it  is  !  " 

"Monsieur  de  Lully,  you  are  a  very  great 
musician." 

"  Monsieur  de  Petit-Pierre,  you  are  a  most  excel- 
lent cook." 

"  We  are  two  very  great  men  !  " 

"  And  well  fitted  to  appreciate  each  other." 

"And  to  drink  each  other's  health.  Pass  the 
bottle." 

So  delightfully  were  the  two  companions  occupied 
that  they  did  not  observe  that  for  five  minutes 
some  one  had  been  knocking  violently  at  the  door. 

At  length  Petit-Pierre  said,  "  Do  you  think  some 
one  may  possibly  be  knocking  ?  It  seems  to  me  I 
hear  a  noise.  Shall  we  open  the  door  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care,"  replied  Jean  Baptiste.  "  They 
can  get  in,  anyhow,  if  they  choose  to  break  the 
door  down." 

"  Very  well.   Why  should  we  trouble  ourselves  ?  " 

In  a  few  minutes  the  door  was  broken  in,  and 
half-a-dozen  young  noblemen,  angry  and  amazed, 
came  rushing  into  the  room,  stumbling  over  the 
saucepans  and  bottles  which  encumbered  the  floor. 

"  What  does  this  mean,  Lully  ?  "  cried  one  of  the 
new-comers.  "Is  this  the  way  you  receive  people 
who  bring  you  good  news  ?  " 

"I  know  no  other  good  news,"  replied  Lully, 
with  tipsy  gravity,  "  than  that  of  having  found  my 
friend  Petit-Pierre." 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTE,         69 

"  Who,  then,  is  Petit-Pierre  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  great  Italian  nobleman,  who  makes  the 
most  wonderful  macaroni,  and  he  is  going  to  teach 
me  cookery."  ^ 

"  On  condition  that  you  teach  me  music,"  inter- 
rupted the  cook. 

"  Of  course.  You  shall  become  a  musician,  and 
I  will  become  a  cook.  Pass  the  bottle." 

The  new-comers  quickly  perceived  the  condition 
of  the  two  revellers ;  and  one,  thinking  to  sober 
Lully,  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  We  come  from  the 
King." 

"  What  do  I  care  about  the  King  ?  "  cried  Lully, 
undismayed.  "  He  knows  nothing  whatever  about 
music.  You  would  not  find  my  friend  Petit-Pierre, 
for  example,  listening  to  an  opera  of  Lalande." 

"Pardon,  Monsieur  de  Lully,"  said  another 
speaker,  "the  King  does  understand  music  per- 
fectly, and  that  is  why  we  are  here.  His  Majesty 
has  heard  that  you  have  caused  your  '  Armide '  to  be 
played  for  yourself  alone,  and  that  you  applauded 
it  with  enthusiasm.  He  considers  you  the  best 
judge  of  music  in  the  world,  and  is  therefore  con- 
vinced that  the  work  must  be  a  noble  one.  He 
sends  you  his  compliments,  and  desires  to  see  the 
opera  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Vive  le  roi !  "  cried  the  composer,  become  sober 
in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  "  Pardon  me,  my 
lords,  if  in  my  folly  I  said  a  word  against  the 
greatest  and  most  enlightened  of  monarchs.  It 


70      GLIMPSES  OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT, 

was  all  the  fault  of  that  abominable  Petit-Pierre. 
I  really  must  get  rid  of  him.  If  any  of  your  lord- 
ships want  a  superior  cook — " 

"  I  take  him  on  your  recommendation !  "  cried 
one  of  the  courtiers.  "  Like  the  King,  I  rely  on 
your  judgment,  and  I  know  you  are  as  great  a  con- 
noisseur in  cookery  as  in  music.  But  you  will  not 
get  drunk  again  with  him  ?  " 

"  Never,  I  swear  it ! "  cried  Jean  Baptiste  ;  and 
he  added  in  a  whisper  to  Petit-Pierre,  "  We  will 
begin  again  as  soon  as  you  please,  only  next  time  I 
will  come  to  your  kitchen,  where  no  one  will  look 
for  me." 

The  "  Armide  "  was  played  the  following  evening 
amid  thunders  of  applause.  Paris  and  Versailles 
went  mad  over  it ;  and  for  eighty  years  it  held  the 
stage,  admired  of  all,  till  Gluck  came  out  of  Ger- 
many and  turned  all  the  music  upside  down.  But 
that  mattered  little  to  Jean  Baptiste,  who  had  been 
in  his  grave  since  1687. 

In  that  year,  while  conducting  a  Te  Deum  for 
the  "King's  recovery  from  a  grievous  illness,  the 
fiery  maestro  managed,  one  hardly  sees  how,  to 
strike  his  foot  violently  with  his  baton.  Neglected 
at  first,  an  abscess  formed  on  the  injured  foot ;  he 
consulted  a  quack,  who  did  not  know  what  to  do 
for  the  poor  little  man ;  and  on  the  22d  of  March 
Paris  found  herself  without  her  Lully. 

I  have  given  a  few  episodes  only,  drawn  from 
the  "  Souvenirs  d'un  Musicien,"  of  the  life  of  this 


THE  STORY  OF  JEAN  BAPTISTS.         71 

singular  little  man.  He  was  far  from  being  a 
paragon  of  virtue.  He  drank  like  a  fish,  he  beat 
his  wife  abominably,  he  was  to  be  avoided  when 
in  a  bad  humor;  but  he  was  the  father  of  the 
orchestra,  and  the  founder  of  French  opera ;  and 
lovers  of  music,  though  they  no  longer  go  to  hear 
his  "  Armide,"  still  owe  him  a  debt  of  thanks  for 
what  he  was  and  for  what  he  did. 


SAINT-SIMON  AT  VERSAILLES.1 

A  SUITE  of  rooms  at  Versailles,  glittering  with 
mirrors  and  gilding,  the  walls  hung  with  damask 
and  brocade,  the  furniture  quaint  and  graceful, 
but  planned  for  effect  rather  than  comfort.  Pass 
through  them  with  me,  while  the  sleepy  lackeys  at 
the  door  bow,  and  yawn  and  rub  their  eyes  after 
we  have  passed.  It  is  late,  late  in  the  night,  and 
they  are  tired,  poor  wretches,  and  would  fain  go 
to  bed.  Here  in  a  bedroom  at  one  side  lies  a  lady 
fast  asleep  in  a  great  bed  like  a  satin  sarcophagus. 
The  curtains  are  parted,  and  we  can  see  "  a  very 
pleasing  face,  extremely  noble  and  modest ;  fair, 
with  a  perfect  complexion,  and  an  air  of  virtue  and 
natural  sweetness."  This  is  evidently  the  lady  of 
the  house,  —  a  duchess  in  rank,  as  we  may  see  by 
the  coronets  embroidered  on  curtain  and  coverlid. 
But  where  is  her  lord  ?  Where  is  the  master  of  the 
house  ?  Is  he  still  revelling  at  court,  or  is  he  far 
away  in  Holland,  with  the  armies  of  France  ? 
Neither  one  nor  the  other  just  at  present,  though 
both  scenes  are  familiar  to  him.  Come  with  me 
into  this  farthest  room  of  the  suite,  empty  and 

1  This  sketch  has  been  drawn  partly  from  Mr.  Clifton  W. 
Collins's  admirable  little  work  on  Saint-Simon. 


SAIXT-SIMON  AT   VERSAILLES.  73 

echoing,  like  the  rest.  See,  I  draw  this  curtain 
which  hangs  upon  the  wall  at  the  farther  end. 
Ah,  you  had  no  idea  there  was  a  door  here  ? 
Indeed,  it  is  not  generally  known.  The  door  slides 
easily,  noiselessly,  into  the  wall;  let  us  look 
through  the  opening. 

In  a  tiny  room,  a  cabinet,  as  the  French  call  it, 
furnished  merely  with  a  chair  and  a  table,  sits  a 
man,  writing.  Candles  burn  on  the  table ;  sheets 
of  paper  are  scattered  over  it.  The  man  is  writing 
furiously.  His  pen  drives  over  the  paper  as  if 
it  were  alive.  Occasionally  he  pauses  and  looks 
up,  tossing  his  hair  back,  and  gazing  straight 
before  him,  as  if  trying  to  call  up  some  image 
before  his  mental  vision ;  then  plunges  at  the 
papers  again,  in  a  very  fury  of  scribbling.  In  one 
of  these  upward  glances  we  see  a '  pair  of  piercing 
dark  eyes,  with  a  gleam  in  them  that  is  not  of 
gentleness ;  irregular  features,  without  beauty,  but 
bearing  the  stamp  of  keen  intelligence.  Who  is 
this  gentleman,  who  wears  the  dress  and  ornaments 
of  a  courtier,  and  yet  is  writing  as  if  he  were  a 
poor  penny-a-liner  scribbling  for  his  bread  ?  This 
is  the  Due  de  Saint-Simon;  this  is  the  master 
of  the  house :  and  he  is  writing  the  Memoirs  of  his 
own  time,  for  his  own  private  delectation.  Shall 
we  look  over  his  shoulder  and  see  what  amuses 
him,  —  for  he  smiles,  now  as  he  writes,  a  cruel 
smile,  and  his  flexible  eyebrows  move,  knitting 
and  unknitting  themselves.  "  It  must  be  confessed 


74      GLIMPSES  OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

that  for  him  who  knows  the  court  to  its  inmost 
corners,  the  first  sight  of  spectacles  of  this  kind 
[the  spectacle  itself  must  be  described  on  the  pre- 
ceding page],  so  interesting  in  so  many  different 
points  of  view,  gives  an  extreme  satisfaction. 
Each  face  recalls  to  you  the  cares,  the  intrigues, 
the  intense  labor  employed  in  the  advancement 
and  formation  of  fortunes  by  the  aid  of  cabals ; 
the  skill  used  to  hold  one's  own  ground  and  get 
rid  of  others ;  the  means  of  all  kinds  employed  to 
that  end;  the  intimacies,  more  or  less  advanced; 
the  estrangements,  the  coldnesses,  the  hatreds,  the 
ill  turns,  the  intrigues,  the  overtures,  the  diplo- 
macy, the  meanness,  the  baseness  of  each;  the 
disconcertment  of  some  when  half-way  on  their 
road,  or  in  the  midst,  or  at  the  height  of  their 
expectations,  —  all  this  medley  of  living  objects 
and  of  such  important  details  gives  to  him  who 
knows  how  to  receive  it  a  pleasure  which,  hollow 
as  it  may  seem,  is  one  of  the  greatest  that  you  can 
receive  at  court." 

"  To  him  who  knoivs  how  to  receive  it."  Ah, 
there  sounds  the  keynote.  And  in  all  the  noisy 
trumpet-flourishing,  drum-beating,  pipe-squeaking 
of  the  gilded  court  of  Louis  XIV.  there  was  no 
man  who  better  knew  "  how  to  receive  it,"  how  to 
take  his  impressions,  than  "this  little  Duke  with 
the  piercing  eye,"  as  Sainte-Beuve  calls  him, 
"cruel,  insatiable,  always  on  the  chase,  ferreting 
about,  present  everywhere,  swooping  on  his  prey, 


SAINT-SIMOX  AT  VERSAILLES.  75 

and  laying  waste,  on  all  sides."  Here  is  no  cool, 
dispassionate  philosopher,  looking  down  from  calm 
heights  upon  the  turbulent  crowd,  and  moralizing 
upon  their  absurdities :  the  spirit  of  the  times  runs 
riot  in  his  breast ;  he  thinks,  feels  intensely,  is  a 
partisan  for  or  against.  Keen  satire,  bitter  invec- 
tive, animated  description,  heartfelt  admiration, 
flow  with  like  impetuosity  from  his  pen,  and  in 
reading  his  words  now  that  two  hundred  years 
have  passed  since  the  restless  pen  was  still,  we 
live  over  with  him  the  scenes  he  describes ;  we 
breathe  the  heavy-scented  air  of  Versailles  ;  we  hear 
the  whispering  and  chattering,  the  clank  of  gilded 
swords  and  the  frou-frou  of  silk  and  lace ;  we  see 
the  glances  of  envy,  of  hatred,  the  courtly  saluta- 
tions, the  "smiles  and  leers  and  crocodile  tears," 
as  the  nursery  rhyme  puts  it:  the  whole  solemn, 
splendid  mockery  of  a  pageant  glides  past  our  eyes. 
The  Duke  has  been  at  court  all  day  probably. 
He  has  had  a  chat,  perhaps,  with  Madame,  the 
King's  sister-in-law,  whom  he  loves  and  respects,  — 
that  honest  German  princess,  with  "  the  figure  and 
roughness  of  a  Swiss  guard,"  who  pined  in  her 
gilded  cage,  longing  for  her  beloved  Heidelberg 
and  for  "a  good  plate  of  sauerkraut  and  smoked 
sausages."  Perhaps  she  has  been  pouring  into  the 
sympathetic  ear  of  Saint-Simon  her  troubles  in 
regard  to  her  son  (then  Due  de  Chartres,  after- 
wards the  infamous  Regent  Orleans),  whom  the 
King  insisted  on  marrying  to  his  illegitimate 


76      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

daughter,  Mademoiselle  de  Blois.  Great  was  the 
anger  of  Madame  at  the  prospect  of  this  mesalliance  ; 
but  the  King  commanded,  and  she  could  but  obey. 

Perhaps,  at  this  very  moment,  the  faithful  re- 
corder is  writing  his  account  of  the  scene.  Shall 
we  peep  over  his  shoulder  again  ? 

"  I  found  all  the  world  talking  in  little  groups, 
and  great  astonishment  depicted  on  every  face. 
Madame  kept  walking  up  and  down  the  gallery 
with  her  favorite  maid-of-honor,  striding  along 
with  great  steps,  her  handkerchief  in  her  hand, 
talking  and  gesticulating  in  a  loud  tone,  and  acting 
admirably  the  part  of  Ceres  furiously  searching 
for  her  daughter  Proserpine,  and  demanding  her 
back  from  Jupiter.  Every  one  left  the  ground 
clear  for  her,  and  only  passed  through  the  gallery 
on  the  way  to  the  drawing-room.  Monseigneur  and 
Monsieur  had  sat  down  to  lansquenet ;  and  never 
was  anything  so  shamefaced  and  utterly  discon- 
certed as  Monsieur's  countenance  and  whole  appear- 
ance. His  son  seemed  in  despair,  and  the  bride- 
elect  in  the  greatest  sorrow  and  embarrassment. 

"  At  supper  the  King  showed  his  usual  ease  of 
manner ;  Madame's  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  which 
fell  from  time  to  time,  though  she  dried  them  now 
and  then,  as  she  looked  round  at  every  face,  as  if 
to  see  what  they  thought  of  it  all.  Her  son  also 
had  his  eyes  very  red,  and  neither  of  them  could 
eat  anything.  I  noticed  that  the  King  offered 
Madame  nearly  all  the  dishes  in  front  of  him,  and 


SAINT-SIMON  AT   VERSAILLES.  77 

that  she  refused  them  all  with  a  rudeness  which 
did  not  in  the  least  diminish  his  air  of  respect  and 
politeness.  It  was  also  much  remarked  that  after 
leaving  the  table,  and  when  the  circle  round  his 
Majesty  was  dispersing,  the  King  made  a  very 
marked  and  low  reverence  to  Madame,  during 
which  she  performed  such  a  complete  pirouette 
that  the  King,  as  he  raised  his  head,  found  nothing 
but  her  back  towards  him,  only  removed  a  step 
nearer  the  door." 

Yes,  and  the  next  day  he  will  report  how 
"  Madame  was  at  the  levee,  and  her  son  approached 
her,  as  he  did  every  day,  to  kiss  her  hand.  But 
just  then  Madame  gave  him  such  a  sounding  box 
on  the  ear  that  it  was  heard  some  paces  off;  and, 
delivered  as  it  was  in  the  presence  of  the  whole 
court,  it  covered  the  unfortunate  prince  with  con- 
fusion, and  excited  prodigious  astonishment  in  the 
crowd  of  lookers-on,  of  whom  I  was  one." 

But  this  is  really  not  fair.  I  have  no  possible 
right  to  take  you  into  M.  de  Saint-Simon's  secret 
cabinet  in  the  dead  of  night,  and  let  you  look  over 
his  shoulder,  without  so  much  as  introducing  him 
to  you.  Let  me  go  back,  and  begin  properly  at  the 
beginning. 

The  Due  de  Saint-Simon  was  the  son  of  Claude 
Saint-Simon,  who  had  been  a  page  in  the  service 
of  Louis  XIII.,  and  who  obtained  his  promotion  in 
rather  a  singular  way.  It  is  well  known  that 
Louis'  greatest  passion  was  for  the  chase.  So 


78      GLfMPSES  OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT, 

eagerly  did  he  follow  it  that  he  bitterly  begrudged 
the  necessity  of  stopping  to  change  horses  when 
one  steed  was  ridden  to  the  point  of  exhaustion. 
This  difficulty  young  Saint-Simon,  who  was  a  quick- 
witted fellow,  managed  to  do  away  with,  by  placing 
the  tail  of  the  fresh  horse  that  he  brought,  parallel 
to  the  head  of  the  other.  By  this  ingenious  device, 
his  Majesty  was  enabled  to  slip  easily  from  one 
saddle  to  the  other,  without  putting  his  ro}ral  foot 
to  the  ground.  Great  was  the  joy  of  King  Louis  ; 
greater,  the  joy  of  the  lucky  page  as  he  found 
himself  in  succession  Chief  Squire,  First  Gen- 
tleman of  the  Bedchamber,  Grand  Wolf-hunter, 
Knight  of  the  Order  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  Captain 
of  the  Palace  Guard  at  St.  Germain's,  and  Governor 
of  the  Castle  of  Blaye. 

Strange  to  say,  —  alas,  that  it  should  be  so 
strange  !  — Claude  Saint-Simon  seems  to  have  been 
worthy  of  this  rapid  promotion,  and  to  have 
remained  unspoiled  by  the  favors  so  showered 
upon  him.  His  son  describes  him  as  "  one  in 
whom  some  spark  of  the  feudal  spirit  still  burned ; 
a  hero  like  those  of  a  bygone  age,  and  the  devoted 
servant  of  the  best  and  greatest  of  kings  ; "  and 
though  we  may  think  this  portrait  rather  highly 
colored  (especially  the  background,  where  Louis 
XIII.  shines  with  all-too-serene  splendor),  there  is 
no  doubt  that  the  elder  Saint-Simon  did  serve  his 
master  with  fidelity  and  devotion.  Even  Richelieu 
loved  and  trusted  him,  if  we  may  judge  from  the 


SAINT-SIMON  AT   VERSAILLES.  79 

following  passage  in  the  Memoirs  :  "  When  the 
shades  of  misfortune  were  gathering  around  this 
minister,  my  father  was  often  suddenly  waked  at 
midnight  by  his  bed-curtains  being  drawn  aside  by 
a  valet  with  a  candlestick  in  his  hand,  and  there 
would  be  Richelieu  standing  behind  him.  And  the 
Cardinal  would  then  take  the  candlestick,  and  seat 
himself  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  crying  out  that  he 
was  lost,  and  had  come  to  my  father  for  advice 
and  assistance,  repeating  some  orders  he  had 
received,  or  some  passage  of  arms  that  he  had  just 
had  with  the  King."  In  fact,  it  seems  to  have  been 
by  the  help  of  Claude  Saint-Simon  that  Richelieu, 
when  on  the  very  brink  of  disgrace  and  dismissal, 
obtained  that  secret  interview  with  Louis  which 
resulted  in  the  Day  of  Dupes,  and  the  complete 
reinstatement  of  the  great  minister  in  his  mon- 
arch's favor.  So  well  did  Saint-Simon  love  this 
King,  who  is  not  generally  thought  specially  lov- 
able or  attractive,  that  when  he  was  called  upon 
to  attend  his  funeral,  and,  in  virtue  of  his  office 
(whether  that  of  Chief  Squire,  First  Gentleman 
of  the  Bedchamber,  Grand  Wolf-hunter,  Knight 
of  the  Order  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  Captain  of  the 
Palace-Guard,  or  Governor  of  Blaye,  I  cannot  tell 
you),  was  to  throw  the  sword  of  state  upon  the 
coffin  as  it  lay  in  the  open  vault,  he  was  for  the 
moment,  as  he  often  told  his  son,  on  the  point  of 
throwing  himself  after  it. 

But  here  we  must  leave  this  good  man,  saluting 


80      GLIMPSES  OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

him  first  as  Duke  of  Saint-Simon,  —  the  last  and 
most  enduring  of  his  many  titles,  —  and  turn  to  greet 
his  son,  the  Vidame  de  Chartres,  whom  we  find  in 
the  year  1691,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  wearying 
of  books  and  tutors,  being  presented  at  court,  and 
receiving  gracious  permission  from  Louis  XIV.  to 
join  the  regiment  of  the  Gray  Musketeers.  The  next 
year  he  set  out  to  join  the  army  in  Flanders,  with 
a  train  of  thirty-five  horses  and  sumpter-mules,  a 
tutor,  and  a  squire.  These  two  gentlemen  had 
been  charged  by  the  careful  mother  to  keep  watch 
over  her  young  soldier  ;  but  in  the  first  action  the 
tutor  lost  both  hat  and  wig,  and  was  finally  carried 
off,  a  la  John  Gilpin,  by  his  horse,  a  beast  probably 
of  Flemish  descent,  who  fairly  took  the  bit  in  his 
teeth,  and  bolted  into  the  enemy's  lines ;  while  the 
squire,  fired  with  the  laudable  ambition  to  save 
at  least  one  precious  life,  remained  prudently  out 
of  reach  of  the  firing,  and  only  came  up,  when  all 
was  over,  to  congratulate  his  master  on  the  bril- 
liant success  of  the  day.  "  I  was  so  surprised  and 
indignant  at  his  effrontery,"  says  Saint-Simon, 
"  that  I  never  answered  him  a  word  then,  and 
have  never  spoken  to  him  since." 

A  magnificent  campaign  was  this  of  1692,  —  one 
of  the  last  in  which  Louis  appeared  in  person  in 
the  field.  All  the  princes  were  there,  two-thirds 
of  the  princesses,  —  in  fact,  the  court  itself ;  with 
baggage-trains,  camp-followers,  etc.,  ad  infinitum. 
On  the  plain  near  Mons,  Louis  held  a  grand  review 


SAINT-SIMON  AT   VERSAILLES.  81 

to  please  the  ladies.  One  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  of  the  finest  troops  in  the  world  were 
drawn  up  in  a  line  eight  miles  long ;  and  the 
Great  Monarch  caracoled  up  and  down  the  line,  in 
his  glory  and  his  wig,  and  after  him  rolled  the 
gilded  coaches,  with  Montespan  and  Maintenon, 
Monsieur  and  Madame,  Condes  and  Contis,  and 
Heaven  (or  Heaven's  opposite)  knows  who  else. 
Then  Namur  was  invested  by  Vauban,  "the  soul 
of  sieges,"  —  ISTamur,  the  maiden  fortress,  the 
strongest  hold  in  the  Netherlands.  All  went  mer- 
rily with  the  besiegers  till  the  8th  of  June,  when 
Saint  Meclard,  the  French  Saint  Swithin,  held  his 
festival,  —  which  saint  having  his  own  views  about 
the  siege,  sent  a  deluge  of  rain,  and  raised  the 
river,  and  flooded  the  roads,  and  played  the  mis- 
chief generally.  The  soldiers  made  bonfires  of 
the  images  of  Saint  Medard  wherever  they  could 
lay  their  hands  on  them  ;  but  that  did  not  dry  up 
the  mud,  in  which  men  and  horses  floundered  up 
to  their  knees.  Carts  and  wagons  were  useless  for 
transport,  and  everything  needed  for  the  camp, 
from  grain  to  gunpowder,  must  be  carried  on  horse- 
back. All  the  troopers  were  pressed  into  the 
service,  and  cheerfully  loaded  their  saddles  with 
sacks  of  corn  and  oats  ;  but  when  the  young  noble- 
men, mousquetaires  and  chasseurs,  were  called 
upon  to  do  likewise,  an  indignant  murmur  went 
up.  "What!  we,  the  flower  of  France,  carry  that 
other  flour  which  is  spelt  without  a  '  w '  ?  Mor- 
6 


82      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

bleu!  parbleu!  we  will  die  sooner."  Thus  the 
Gardes  du  Corps,  flinging  down,  indignant,  the 
sacks  of  grain  which  should  keep  them  and  their 
horses  alive.  Seeing  which,  and  seeing  also  his 
own  troop  about  to  mutiny,  down  sprang  from  his 
horse  the  young  Vidame  de  Chartres,  shouldered  a 
sack,  swung  it  across  the  crupper  of  his  horse,  and 
leaped  into  the  saddle  again,  calling  upon  his 
mates  to  follow  his  example.  Merin,  the  brigadier, 
who  had  been  foaming  with  rage  to  see  his  com- 
mand disobeyed,  flew  to  him,  clapped  him  on  the 
shoulder,  and  pointed  him  out  to  the  rebellious 
troops.  "  The  eldest  son  of  a  duke,"  he  cried,  "  is 
proud  to  perform  this  act  of  honorable  service  ! 
Who  then  dares  to  be  ashamed  of  it  ?  "  A V  here- 
upon, like  valiant  men  and  true,  the  Gardes  du 
Corps  all  took  up  their  sacks  without  another  word, 
and  the  camp  was  victualled,  in  spite  of  Saint 
Medard.  The  moral  of  which  is  that  it  is  a  very 
fine  thing  to  be  the  eldest  son  of  a  duke,  if  one  is 
otherwise  made  of  the  right  stuff.  The  King  heard 
of  this,  of  course,  and  made  a  point  of  saying 
something  civil  to  the  young  mousquetaire  when- 
ever an  occasion  offered. 

Of  the  siege  and  fall  of  Namur  it  is  not  my 
province  here  to  speak.  It  fell,  and  the  court 
returned  to  Versailles  covered  with  glory,  —  the 
last  glory  that  Louis  was  to  see  in  person ;  very 
neaily  the  last  that  was  to  crown  the  arms  of 
France  for  many  a  long  day. 


SAINT-SIMON  AT   VERSAILLES.  83 

In  the  following  year  (1693)  old  Claude  de  Saint- 
Simon  died,  and  his  son  was  hailed  as  duke  in  his 
place,  and  succeeded  to  his  property.  Even  during 
a  previous  illness  of  the  old  Duke,  certain  zealous 
courtiers  had  rushed  headlong  to  the  King  and 
begged  for  the  reversion  of  his  offices ;  but  Louis 
replied,  with  some  sternness,  "  Has  he  not  a  son  ?  " 
and  the  hint  was  taken.  Behold  our  hero,  there- 
fore, a  duke  at  nineteen  years,  with  a  country-seat 
(Le  Ferte  Vidame),  and  a  house  in  Paris,  fairly 
launched  into  the  great  world.  An  aristocrat  of 
the  aristocrats,  considering  the  dukes  of  France 
the  only  legitimate  support  of  the  throne,  any 
attempt  upon  the  dignity  of  a  peer  of  France  he 
regards  as  a  personal  affront  to  himself.  Witness 
the  suit  which  he  persuaded  his  brother  peers  to 
bring  against  Luxembourg,  the  great  marshal,  the 
successor  of  Conde  and  Turenne,  now  at  the  head 
of  the  armies  of  France.  Greatly  did  Saint-Simon 
admire  the  genius  of  the  commander,  to  which  he 
pays  ample  tribute ;  but  think  now  what  a  hor- 
rible thing  this  brilliant  commander  had  done ! 
He  had  claimed  the  dormant  title  of  the  Duke  of 
Piney,  —  a  title  dating  from  1581,  and  giving  pre- 
cedence over  every  duke  in  France  save  one.  In 
order  to  make  good  this  claim,  he  had  "ferreted 
out"  the  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  last  Duke 
of  Piney,  —  a  daughter  by  his  second  wife,  mark 
you!  —  and  had  feloniously  married  her,  in  spite 
of  her  being  "hideously  ugly,  like  some  fright- 


84      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

fully  fat  fishwoman  in  her  cask ; "  and  to  make 
assurance  doubly  sure,  he  had  bribed  the  real 
heirs  —  an  imbecile  priest  and  a  nun,  children  of 
the  Duke  by  his  first  wife  —  to  give  up  all  claim 
to  title  or  estate.  Finally,  he  had  managed  to 
obtain  new  letters-patent,  and  fairly  got  himself 
created  Duke  of  Piney.  One  would  think  that  if 
he  really  wanted  to  be  duke  enough  to  take  so 
much  trouble  ("  fishwoman "  and  all)  upon  him- 
self, he  ought  to  have  been  allowed  that  gratifica- 
tion. But  our  ideas  on  such  subjects  are  wofully 
lax.  In  the  eyes  of  Saint-Simon,  this  was  a  hid- 
eous crime.  The  ancient  title  was  extinct ;  or  if 
any  one  was  to  bear  it,  it  was  the  idiot  priest  in 
the  madhouse.  Why,  in  the  name  of  heraldry 
and  feudalism,  why  should  Luxembourg  have  it  ? 
Rouse  ye,  Dukes  of  France,  and  prevent  this  out- 
rage !  Support  your  order,  which  supports  the 
throne,  which  supports  France,  which  supports 
the  world! 

The  Dukes  roused  themselves,  —  rather  lan- 
guidly, it  must  be  confessed.  They  joined  Saint- 
Simon  in  bringing  a  lawsuit  against  the  marshal ; 
but,  alas !  it  was  a  forlorn  hope  from  the  outset. 
Luxembourg  was  the  hero  of  the  hour.  He  had 
led  the  armies  to  victory,  to  glory.  He  was  dux  de 
facto  ;  why  should  he  not  be  duke  de  jure  ?  Thus 
the  ladies,  and  the  rising  generation,  and  the  world 
in  general,  except  the  Dukes.  The  trial  dragged 
on,  with  various  delays  and  difficulties.  Luxein- 


SAINT-SIMON  AT   VERSAILLES.  85 

bourg  died;  but  that  made  no  difference,  for  he 
had  a  son.  Finally,  judgment  was  given  in  favor 
of  the  son,  and  his  descendants  may  call  them- 
selves Dukes  of  Piney  to  this  day,  for  aught  I 
know  to  the  contrary.  Bitter  was  the  wrath  of 
Saint-Simon,  —  against  the  iniquitous  processes  of 
the  law  in  general;  in  particular  against  Haiiay, 
the  First  President,  to  whose  treachery  and  villany 
he  attributes  the  loss  of  the  suit.  One  hardly 
knows  how  much  or  how  little  to  believe  of  our 
writer's  violent  abuse  of  this  eminent  lawyer, 
whose  talent  and  learning  he  acknowledges,  while 
he  assures  us  that  he  was  "  destitute  of  real  honor, 
secretly  depraved  in  morals,  with  only  a  show  of 
honesty,  without  even  humanity,  —  in  a  word,  a 
perfect  hypocrite ;  without  a  faith,  without  a  law, 
without  a  God,  and  without  a  soul;  a  cruel  hus- 
band, a  barbarous  father,  a  tyrannical  brother; 
no  one's  friend  but  his  own ;  wicked  by  nature ; 
taking  delight  in  insulting,  outraging,  and  crushing 
others,  and  having  never,  during  all  his  life,  missed 
a  chance  of  doing  so."  Not  content  with  this 
sweeping  denunciation,  Saint-Simon  goes  on  to 
relate,  in  his  inimitable  manner,  various  stories 
of  the  First  President's  keen  and  not  too  kindly 
humor.  Here  is  one  of  them:  "The  Duchess  of 
La  Fertc  went  to  him  [Harlay]  to  ask  an  audience, 
and,  like  every  one  else,  had  a  taste  of  his  temper. 
As  she  was  leaving,  she  complained  to  her  man  of 
business,  and  called  the  First  President  'an  old 


86      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

baboon.'  He  was  following  her  all  the  while,  but 
did  not  say  a  word.  At  last  she  saw  him  behind 
her,  but  hoped  that  he  had  not  overheard,  and, 
without  giving  any  sign  of  having  done  so,  he  put 
her  in  her  carriage. 

"  Shortly  afterwards  her  suit  came  on  [before 
Haiiay],  and  she  unexpectedly  gained  her  cause. 
Off  she  ran  to  the  First  President's  house,  and 
made  all  kinds  of  acknowledgments.  He,  all 
humble  and  modest,  made  her  a  deep  reverence ; 
and  then,  looking  her  straight  in  the  face,  'Ma- 
dame,' said  he,  in  a  loud  voice  before  everybody, 
'I  am  very  glad  that  an  old  baboon  [un  vieux 
singe']  has  been  able  to  give  some  pleasure  to  an 
old  she-monkey'  [une  vieille  guenon\.  And  then, 
in  his  humblest  manner,  without  saying  another 
Avord,  he  gave  her  his  hand  to  conduct  her  to  her 
carriage.  The  Duchess  would  have  liked  to  kill 
him,  or  die  herself." 

While  the  famous  suit  was  pending,  Saint-Simon 
married  a  daughter  of  Marshal  de  Lorges,  a  lovely 
young  girl,  whom  he  loved  devotedly,  and  who 
made,  he  says,  the  happiness  of  his  life.  When 
the  next  campaign  opened,  he  naturally  did  not 
care  to  serve  again  under  Luxembourg,  but  man- 
aged to  get  himself  transferred  to  the  Army  of  the 
Rhine,  under  his  father-in-law,  De  Lorges.  He 
tells  us  little  about  this  campaign ;  but  we  do  learn 
the  astounding  fact  that  the  old  marshal  had  a  fit 
of  illness,  and  that  his  fond  son-in-law  saved  his 


SAINT-SIMON  AT  VERSAILLES.  87 

life  by  giving  him  one  hundred  and  thirty  English 
drops,  which  had  "an  astonishing  effect."  One 
would  think  they  might  have,  considering  what 
medicine  was  in  those  days.  Also,  he  tells  us 
how,  in  Flanders,  a  great  opportunity  was  lost, 
through  the  poltroonery  of  the  Duke  of  Maine, 
the  King's  favorite  son.  Message  after  message 
was  sent  to  him  from  headquarters,  urging  him  to 
attack  the  enemy,  whose  army  lay  in  exposed  posi- 
tion; but  he  "stammered  out  excuses,"  and  finally 
allowed  the  Flemings  to  slip  away  unmolested. 
All  the  officers  were  in  despair,  but  none  dared 
tell  the  King.  Louis,  however,  suspected  something 
in  the  reports,  and  finally,  by  cross-questioning  a 
valet,  learned  the  story  of  his  darling  son's  dis- 
grace. He  was  so  angry,  Saint-Simon  tells  us, 
that  he  felt  the  necessity  of  giving  vent  to  his 
rage  in  some  way;  and  happening,  as  he  left  the 
table,  to  see  an  unlucky  servant  slip  a  biscuit  into 
his  pocket,  this  Great  King  fell  upon  the  culprit 
and  beat  him  about  the  shoulders  till  his  cane 
broke  in  two,  while  all  the  on-lookers  trembled. 
Thus  did  "this  prince,  outwardly  so  calm,  and 
such  a  master  of  his  slighest  movements,  even 
when  events  touched  him  most  nearly,  succumb 
on  this  single  occasion."  (N.  B.  —  Chevreul  tells 
us  that,  not  Maine,  but  Villeroy,  was  to  blame  for 
this  victory  manque,  and  that  only  Saint- Simon's 
vindictive  hatred  of  the  Bastard  made  him  lay  the 
blame  on  his  shoulders.) 


88      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

After  the  Peace  of  Ryswick,  Saint-Simon  threw 
up  his  commission,  being  offended  at  the  promotion 
of  five  younger  officers  over  his  head.  His  letter 
to  the  King,  announcing  his  intention  of  quitting 
the  army,  was  couched  in  respectful  and  submis- 
sive terms,  and  made  ill-health  the  plea  for  his 
defection  ;  but  Louis  saw  through  the  device,  and 
was  offended.  "  See,  Monsieur  ! "  he  exclaimed, 
with  emotion,  to  Chamillart,  showing  him  the 
letter,  "  here  is  another  man  leaving  us."  It  was 
with  some  trepidation  that  Saint-Simon,  after  wait- 
ing eight  days  after  sending  his  letter,  and  hearing 
nothing  from  the  King  in  reply,  ventured  to  pre- 
sent himself  at  Versailles.  Himself  shall  tell 
how  he  sped. 

"  I  did  not  hear  of  anything  else  that  fell  from 
him.  This  Shrove  Tuesday  I  reappeared  before 
him  for  the  first  time  since  my  letter,  on  his  retir- 
ing after  his  supper.  I  should  be  ashamed  to  tell 
the  trifle  that  I  am  about  to  narrate,  if  it  did  not 
help  to  characterize  him  under  the  circumstances. 
Although  the  place  where  he  undressed  was  well 
lighted,  the  almoner  of  the  day,  who  held  a  lighted 
candle  at  his  evening  prayer,  gave  it  back  after- 
wards to  the  first  valet-de-chambre,  who  carried  it 
before  the  King  as  he  resumed  his  seat.  He 
glanced  around,  and  named  aloud  one  of  those 
present,  to  whom  the  valet  gave  the  candle.  It 
was  a  distinction  and  a  favor  which  had  its  value, 
so  adroit  was  the  King  in  making  something  out  of 


SAINT-SIMON  AT   VERSAILLES.  89 

nothings.  He  only  gave  it  to  those  who  were  most 
distinguished  by  dignity  and  birth,  very  rarely  to 
inferiors,  in  whom  age  and  service  sufficed.  He 
often  gave  it  to  me,  rarely  to  ambassadors,  except 
to  the  nuncio,  and  in  later  times  to  the  Spanish 
ambassador. 

"  You  took  off  your  glove ;  you  came  forward ; 
you  held  the  candle  during  the  coucher,  which  was 
very  short ;  you  then  gave  it  back  to  the  first 
valet-de-chambre,  who,  if  he  chose,  gave  it  to  some 
one  of  the  petit  coucher. 

"  I  had  purposely  kept  back  ;  and  I  was  much 
surprised,  as  were  the  bystanders,  to  hear  myself 
named ;  and  on  future  occasions  I  had  it  almost  as 
often  as  before.  It  was  not  that  there  were  not 
in  attendance  many  persons  of  mark  to  whom  it 
might  have  been  given,  but  the  King  was  sufficiently 
piqued  to  wish  that  his  being  so  should  not  be 
perceived. 

"  This  was  also  all  I  had  of  him  for  three  years  ; 
during  which  he  forgot  no  trifle,  in  default  of  more 
important  occasions,  to  make  me  feel  how  offended 
he  was." 

The  coldness  of  the  King  to  Saint-Simon  con- 
tinued till  1703,.  when  he  committed  a  second 
offence,  which,  however,  led  to  a  reconciliation 
between  him  and  his  sovereign. 

On  certain  feast-days  it  was  the  custom,  after 
mass  and  vespers,  for  some  lady  of  the  court, 
selected  by  the  Queen  or  the  Dauphiness,  to  go 


90      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

round  the  chapel  and  take  up  the  collection  for  the 
poor.  Now,  the  ladies  of  the  House  of  Lorraine, 
who  were  very  high  and  mighty,  and  claimed  to 
be  on  a  level  with  princesses  of  the  blood,  thought 
this  duty  beneath  them,  and  evaded  it  in  con- 
sequence. Saint-Simon,  who  hated  the  House  of 
Lorraine  on  account  of  their  tracasseries,  scented 
instantly  an  insult  to  his  cherished  order  of  dukes, 
the  support  of  the  throne,  etc.  If  it  was  not  proper 
for  the  ladies  of  Lorraine  to  carry  the  bag,  it  was  not 
proper  for  the  other  duchesses.  To  work  he  went, 
got  up  a  cabal  among  the  great  ladies,  and  induced 
them  all,  or  nearly  all,  to  evade,  in  one  way  or 
another,  the  degrading  task ;  so  that  the  collection 
became  irregular,  and  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  be 
given  up  altogether. 

But  this  was  going  a  little  too  far.  When  the 
matter  reached  the  King's  ears,  he  was  much  in- 
censed, and  vowed  that  the  bag  should  be  carried 
round,  if  the  Duchess  of  Burgundy  herself  (wife  of 
the  Grand  Dauphin)  had  to  carry  it.  As  for  Saint- 
Simon,  his  Majesty  declared  that  "  he  had  done 
nothing  since  he  quitted  the  service  but  study 
degrees  of  rank  and  get  into  squabbles  with  every- 
body ;  that  he  was  the  originator  of  all  this 
(which  was  perfectly  true)  ;  and  that  if  he  had  his 
deserts,  he  would  be  sent  so  far  off  as  to  give  no 
more  trouble  for  a  long  time  to  come." 

This  was  terrible  indeed ;  but  Saint-Simon  was 
equal  to  the  emergency.  He  begged  for  an  audi- 


SAINT-SIMON  AT  VERSAILLES.  91 

ence,  threw  himself  at  the  King's  feet,  deplored  the 
misunderstanding,  and  professed  himself  ready  to 
carry  the  bag  himself  at  any  moment,  if  his  Majesty 
wished  it.  He  maintained  his  point,  however, 
arguing  that  if  one  carried  it,  all  ought  to  do  so, 
and  that  princesses  should  be  no  more  exempt 
than  duchesses.  The  freedom  of  his  language,  he 
tells  us,  conciliated  instead  of  offending  the  King ; 
and  the  audience,  prolonged  as  a  mark  of  special 
favor  to  the  unusual  length  of  half  an  hour,  was  so 
successful  that  Monsieur  the  Duke  put  on  many 
airs  after  it,  telling  the  other  courtiers  that  it 
would  be  better  for  them  if  they  were  as  careful 
of  the  interests  and  privileges  of  their  order  as 
he  was. 

Still,  this  brilliant  moth  could  not  keep  away 
from  the  candle  of  court  intrigue,  and  once  and  twice 
again  he  singed  his  wings.  Now  he  was  protest- 
ing against  the  insolence  of  Monsieur  le  Due  (de 
Conde,  grandson  of  the  great  Conde),  who  ventured 
to  hold  up  a  corner  of  the  cloth  at  the  King's 
communion  without  the  assistance  of  another 
duke, — a  thing  that  no  one  save  a  prince  of  the 
blood  had  a  right  to  do  ;  now  he  was  making  a  bet 
that  Vendome  would  lose,  without  a  battle,  the  town 
of  Lille,  which  he  had  been  sent  to  relieve.  As 
Vendome  was  then  high  in  the  royal  favor,  this  was 
not  exactly  a  prudent  thing  to  do;  nor  did  the 
fact  of  Saint-Simon's  winning  the  wager  make 
matters  better.  A  storm  seemed  to  be  gathering, 


92      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

and  our  hero  took  serious  counsel  with  his  wife 
and  friends  as  to  the  advisability  of  his  retiring 
altogether  from  the  court,  and  living  permanently 
at  his  country-seat.  But  his  counsellors  said, 
"  No  ! "  and  indeed  it  was  the  last  thing  the  Duke 
desired  for  his  own  part.  Something  must  be  done, 
however ;  so  he  ventured  on  the  bold  step  of  asking 
another  audience  of  offended  Majesty.  It  was  not 
very  easy  to  obtain  this  time,  but  he  finally 
succeeded,  made  the  best  apology  he  could  for  the 
wager,  and  then  proceeded  to  answer  various 
charges  which  he  supposed  to  have  been  brought 
against  him.  The  King  was  gracious  enough,  but 
told  him  plainly  that  if  evil  tongues  had  been  busy 
about  him,  he  had  only  himself  to  thank.  "  This 
shows  you,"  added  his  Majesty,  with  a  truly 
paternal  air,  "on  what  footing  you  are  in  the 
world ;  and  you  must  own  that  you  in  some  measure 
merit  this  reputation.  If  you  had  never  been 
engaged  in  affairs  of  ranks  ;  if  at  least  you  had  not 
appeared  so  excited  about  those  that  have  arisen, 
and  about  the  ranks  themselves,  —  people  would  not 
have  had  that  to  say  of  you." 

Briefly,  the  audience  was  far  above  what  the 
Duke  had  ventured  to  hope,  and  not  long  after,  on 
Sunday,  June  5th,  1710,  the  King  informed  the 
enraptured  nobleman  that  his  wife  was  appointed 
lady  of  honor  to  the  future  Duchesse  de  Berry,  as 
a  mark  of  esteem  for  her  virtue  and  merit.  Then, 
after  saying  "all  sorts  of  obliging  things,"  his 


SAINT-SIMON  AT   VERSAILLES.  93 

Majesty,  "  fixing  Saint-Simon "  with  a  look  and 
smile  meant  to  be  winning,  added,  "  But  you  must 
hold  your  tongue  !  " 

Henceforward,  all  went  well  with  the  Saint- 
Simons.  The  salary  and  appointments  were  liberal, 
and  a  delightful  apartment  was  given  them  at 
Versailles,  Antin  being  turned  out  of  his  quarters 
for  that  purpose.  Do  you  know  Antin,  by  the  way  ? 
Saint-Simon,  who  took  his  room,  shall  tell  you  all 
about  him.  The  only  legitimate  son  of  Madame 
de  Montespan,  and  half-brother  of  the  Dukes  of 
Maine  and  Toulouse,  he  was  a  figure  of  some  impor- 
tance ;  moreover,  he  is  the  character  which  Saint- 
Simon  selects  as  the  typical  courtier,  —  the  courtier 
par  excellence.  Gifted  with  almost  every  mental 
and  bodily  accomplishment,  handsome,  learned, 
witty,  with  perfect  manners  and  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  he  possessed  one  quality  rarer 
than  all  these,  "  never  did  he  chance  to  speak 
ill  of  any  one."  But  with  all  these  good  points,  we 
are  nevertheless  not  to  have  any  good  opinion  of 
him,  says  our  writer ;  for  he  was  "  an  impudent 
Gascon,''  —  base,  false,  avaricious,  a  gambler,  a 
cheat,  and — worst  of  all  —  a  coward.  He  had 
showed  his  back  to  the  foe,  and  accepted  the 
grossest  insults  without  attempt  at  retaliation.  It 
was  considered  disgraceful  to  insult  Antin,  — as  if, 
in  our  own  day,  one  should  strike  a  woman. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  the  handsome  silken  courtier 
was  immensely  popular.     His  witty  sallies  amused 


94      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

the  weary  King ;  and  what  a  godsend  that  was  !  He 
was  always  ready  to  gamble  with  Monseigneur  the 
exemplary  Dauphin ;  he  cheated  a  good  deal,  but 
Monseigneur  did  not  mind  that.  "Pray,  Mon- 
seigneur," said  the  King  to  his  son  one  day,  "is  it 
true  that  while  you  were  playing  and  gaining 
heavily,  you  gave  your  hat  to  Antin  to  hold  while 
you  threw  your  winnings  into  it,  and  that,  turning 
your  head  by  chance,  you  saw  Antin  pocketing  the 
money?"  Monsieur  bowed  in  silence.  "  I  under- 
stand," said  the  King ;  "  I  ask  nothing  more."  And 
thereupon  they  separated.  Yes,  and  the  valet  who 
overheard  them  ran  and  told  the  first  squire,  who 
ran  and  told  Saint-Simon,  who  scribbled  it  gleefully 
in  his  note-book.  Antin,  however,  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  successful  in  charming  that  "  discreet 
fairy,"  Madame  de  Maintenon.  We  are  told  that 
when  she  and  the  King  paid  him  a  visit  at  Petit 
Bourg,  he  wished  to  pay  the  great  lady  the  most 
delicate  compliment  possible :  so  he  copied  her 
rooms  at  Versailles,  down  to  the  most  minute 
details;  and  when  she  was  ushered  into  her  bou- 
doir, she  found  everything  just  as  she  had  left  it 
at  home,  —  the  same  carpets,  curtains,  pictures, 
ornaments,  the  same  flowers  in  the  jardinieres ; 
nay,  the  same  books  on  the  table,  left  open  at  the 
same  places ! 

But  the  great  lady  was  not  pleased,  all  the  same. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  she  was  tired  of  her  own  rooms, 
and  would  rather  have  seen  new  hangings  and 


SAINT-SIMON  AT  VERSAILLES.  95 

bric-a-brac,  —  which  shows  that  even  silken  courtiers 
do  not  always  understand  a  woman. 

The  King,  however,  was  delighted  with  Petit 
Bourg.  "  Everything  was,"  says  Saint-Simon, 
"  highly  approved  of,  except  an  avenue  of  chestnut- 
trees,  which  looked  wonderfully  well  in  the  garden, 
but  which  interfered  somewhat  with  the  view  from 
Majesty's  window."  Antin  said  nothing ;  but  next 
morning,  when  Majesty  embellished  the  world  by 
looking  out  upon  it,  the  chestnut-trees  were  gone. 
Xo  sound  had  been  heard  in  the  night ;  no  axe- 
stroke  ringing  through  the  silence  had  checked  for 
an  instant  the  murmurous  music  of  deep  repose 
which  swelled  from  beneath  the  royal  night-cap. 
Smooth  green  turf  stretched  beneath  the  windows, 
with  no  trace  of  disturbance,  no  sign  to  show  that 
a  tree  had  ever  been  there.  Such  magic  can 
loving  loyalty,  backed  by  gold  pieces  judiciously 
pocketed,  work  upon  the  base  and  material  forces 
of  Nature. 

But  to  go  back  to  Saint-Simon,  whom  we  left 
comfortably  established  in  the  apartment  for- 
merly occupied  by  Antin  at  Versailles.  Here  he 
and  his  fair  and  good  wife  lived  in  peace,  and 
here,  in  the  little  dark  cabinet  at  the  back  of 
the  salon,  were  written  the  notes  which  were 
to  result  in  the  famous  Memoirs.  All  day  the 
Duke  hovered  about  the  court,  a  sharp-eyed  little 
bee  with  a  particularly  well-developed  sting ; 
every  night  he  wrote  in  secret,  dipping  bis  pen  in 


98      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

mingled  honey  and  venom,  the  record  of  the  day. 
A  bee  among  the  butterflies  !  Is  it  wonderful  that 
he  was  not  popular  among  the  gilded  courtiers  ? 
No  one  suspected  what  he  was  doing,  or  dreamed 
of  the  unerring  detective  camera  which  his  ruffled 
bosom  presented  to  their  follies  and  foibles ;  but 
they  knew  that  he  watched  them,  that  he  criti- 
cised them.  Every  sharp  thing  he  said  —  and  he 
said  many — was  whispered  about,  embellished  a 
little  or  a  great  deal,  and  so  brought  to  the  ears 
of  the  person  of  whom  it  was  said.  Ah,  but 
if  they  had  known  all  he  did  not  say,  how  the 
whole  butterfly  court  would  have  turned  into  a 
hornet's  nest  about  his  ears !  Monseigneur  the 
Dauphin  knew  that  Saint-Simon  had  called  him 
a  great  imbecile  whom  any  one  could  lead  by 
the  nose,  and  hated  him  in  consequence.  But 
what  would  he  have  said,  could  he  have  read  the 
Avhole  tremendous  indictment  of  himself,  as  we 
can  read  it  ?  "  As  to  character,  Monseigneur  had 
none.  He  was  without  vice  or  virtue,  without 
talent  or  any  sort  of  knowledge,  and  radically  in- 
capable of  acquiring  any.  Extremely  lazy,  with- 
out imagination  or  originality,  without  refinement, 
without  taste,  without  discernment ;  born  to  be 
the  prey  of  a  weariness  which  he  imparted  to 
others,  and  to  be  a  stone  set  rolling  haphazard 
by  another's  impulsion ;  obstinate  and  excessively 
mean  in  everything  ;  easily  prejudiced  beyond 
all  conception,  and  ready  to  believe  everything 


SAINT-SIMON  AT   VERSAILLES.  97 

he  saw ;  given  over  to  the  most  mischievous 
hands,  and  incapable  of  either  extricating  himself 
or  perceiving  his  position  ;  drowned  in  his  fat  and 
his  mental  darkness,  —  so  that,  without  wishing 
to  do  wrong,  he  would  have  made  a  most  pernicious 
king."  This  most  undesirable  prince  died,  as  is 
well  known,  in  1711,  and  one  of  the  most  mar- 
vellous chapters  in  the  Memoirs  is  that  which 
describes  the  scene  at  Versailles  when  the  news  of 
his  death  arrived  from  Meuclon.  The  courtiers 
gathered  together  in  the  Long  Gallery,  rushing 
pell-mell,  elbowing,  jostling,  struggling  to  get  near 
the  messenger.  Princes  in  their  night-gear  (for 
it  was  near  midnight  when  the  tidings  arrived), 
with  their  wigs  clapped  on  hastily,  all  awry ; 
princesses  and  duchesses  huddling  on  their  clothes 
as  they  came ;  cries  of  wonder,  of  pity ;  looks  of 
rage,  of  sorrow,  or  of  ill-concealed  joy  as  the  faces 
were  those  of  the  "  Meudon  faction "  or  of  the 
opposite  one.  The  Duke  of  Burgundy,  son  of  the 
departed  sinner,  "  was  strongly  moved,  showing 
natural  sorrow  ;  "  his  charming  wife  was  graceful 
and  compassionate,  with  a  look  of  troubled  gravity. 
The  majority  of  the  courtiers,  "  that  is,  the  fools, 
dragged  out  their  sighs  with  their  nails,  and  with 
dry  and  wandering  eyes  praised  the  departed 
prince."  As  for  Saint-Simon  himself,  he  describes 
his  emotions  with  absolute  frankness.  "  My  first 
movement  was  to  inform  myself  more  than  once, 
to  withhold  full  belief  in  what  I  saw  and  heard ; 

7 


98      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

then  to  fear  too  little  cause  for  so  much  alarm ; 
finally  to  fall  back  on  myself  by  the  consideration 
of  the  suffering  common  to  all  men,  and  that  I 
should  some  day  or  other  find  myself  at  the  gates 
of  death.  Joy,  however,  pierced  through  the  momen- 
tary reflections  of  religion  and  humanity  by  which 
I  tried  to  check  myself;  my  particular  deliverance 
seemed  to  me  so  great  and  so  unhoped-for  that  it 
seemed  to  me,  with  an  evidence  still  more  perfect 
than  the  truth,  that  the  State  gained  all  by  such 
a  loss.  Amongst  these  thoughts,  I  felt  in  my 
own  despite  a  shade  of  fear  that  the  dying  man 
might  recover ;  and  I  was  extremely  ashamed 
of  it." 

The  young  Duke  of  Burgundy,  now  heir  to  the 
throne,  was  Saint-Simon's  idol,  the  hope  of  France, 
the  coming  glory,  as  his  admirer  fondly  hoped,  of 
the  world.  He  had  been  a  headstrong  boy,  but 
Fenelon  had  worked  a  miracle  upon  him,  and  he 
was  now  grave,  earnest,  deeply  religious,  taking  as 
the  keynote  of  his  future  life  a  sentence  which  he 
had  dared  to  utter  even  in  his  father's  drawing- 
room  :  "  Kings  are  made  for  the  people,  and  not  the 
people  for  the  king."  Alas !  the  bright  promise 
was  not  to  be  fulfilled.  Nine  months  after  Mon- 
seigneur's  death,  the  lovely  young  wife  of  the 
Dauphin,  a  creature  so  blithesome  and  gracious 
that  the  caustic  pen  of  Saint-Simon  seems  dipped 
in  milk  of  roses  when  he  writes  of  her,  sickened  of  a 
mysterious  disease,  —  a  flame  of  fever  which  burned 


SAINT-SIMON  AT  VERSAILLES.  99 

the  sweet  young  life  out  in  a  few  short  days.  She 
had  taken  some  Spanish  snuff,  says  Saint-Simon, 
which  the  Due  de  Noailles  had  given  her,  and  was 
stricken  down  the  same  night.  While  she  lay 
dying,  her  husband  was  attacked  by  the  same 
symptoms.  He  lingered  at  her  bedside  till  his 
strength  gave  way  utterly,  and  then  was  carried 
to  his  own  couch,  never  to  leave  it  alive.  For 
only  a  few  days  these  two  young  creatures,  who 
loved  each  other,  were  separated.  Scarcely  were 
their  sufferings  at  an  end  when  their  two  little 
children  were  attacked  by  measles.  One  died ;  the 
other,  a  feeble,  puny  little  creature,  lived  to  encum- 
ber the  throne  of  France  as  Louis  XV. 

Men  shuddered  and  turned  pale  as  one  fatality 
after  another  swept  away  the  heirs  to  the  throne. 
Terrible  things  were  whispered  about  concerning 
the  Duke  of  Orleans.  He  had  committed  many 
crimes,  had  been  suspected  of  many  more ;  and 
now  it  was  said  that  he  had  poisoned  the  Dauphin, 
his  wife  and  child,  to  clear  a  path  for  himself  to 
the  throne.  But  there  seems  to  be  no  real  foun- 
dation for  the  suspicion ;  and  even  if  there  were, 
with  Philip  of  Orleans  we  have  nothing  now 
to  do. 

Darker  and  darker,  Kembrandt-like  in  their  sin- 
ister gloom,  grow  the  pictures  that  Saint-Simon 
shows  us  with  his  magic-lantern.  Heartbroken  at 
the  loss  of  his  prince,  he  sees  only  ruin  and  despair 
for  France. 


100      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

The  aged  King,  bereft  of  his  children,  shorn  of 
glory  and  honor,  cowering  silent  in  his  dismal 
chamber  at  Marly ;  the  wrinkled  hag  beside  him, 
"  a  living  skeleton,"  also  silent,  revolving  thoughts 
of  heaven  (for  herself)  and  hell  (for  others) ; 
the  weary  court,  forced  to  dance  attendance  on 
these  two  living  mummies,  stifling  their  yawns, 
and  going  on  year  by  year  with  the  dreary  round 
of  empty  ceremonies ;  the  nightmare  of  the  Re- 
gency, with  its  foul  shapes  and  hideous  orgies,  — 
all  these  pass  before  our  eyes,  draAvn  with  the 
same  unsparing  fidelity,  the  same  keen  perception 
and  insight.  But  here  is  enough  for  one  sketch. 
There  are  twenty  volumes  of  these  Memoirs,  and  I 
may  return  to  them  again.  Take  we  for  the  pres- 
ent our  leave  of  Saint-Simon,  passing  the  last  years 
of  his  life  quietly  at  his  country-seat  of  La  Ferte 
Yidame,  writing,  correcting,  polishing  the  work, 
which  was  not  to  be  published  as  a  whole  for  nearly 
a  hundred  and  fifty  years,  but  which  when  finally 
produced,  threw  a  flood  of  light  on  the  times  and 
the  people  of  the  times  such  as  no  other  writer 
has  ever  given.  In  saying  farewell  to  our  Duke, 
we  say  it  also  to  France  for  a  season.  Farewell, 
to  Versailles  and  its  gilded  butterflies,  farewell  to 
Paris,  —  that  vast  cauldron,  in  which  already  are 
beginning  to  seethe  and  ferment  many  strange 
things,  threatening  ebullition  hereafter;  farewell 
to  the  desolate  and  fainting  country,  racked  and 


SAINT-SIMON  AT    VERSAILLES.         101 

tortured  till  one  wonders  that  there  should  be  any 
life  left  in  her. 

Farewell,  in  short,  to  a  magnificent  house  of 
cards,  glittering,  glorious,  with  Kings  and  Queens 
and  Knaves  to  heart's  desire,  —  a  splendid  house  of 
cards,  securely  and  strongly  built  —  in  the  crater 
of  a  volcano. 


AN   ODD   VOLUME. 

IN  preparing  the  foregoing  sketch  of  Saint- 
Simon,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  I  had  read 
the  whole  of  the  Memoirs ;  far  from  it.  There 
are  twenty  volumes,  —  large,  solid  octavos,  in  green- 
gray  paper  covers.  I  do  not  even  own  them.  But 
once  a  year  it  is  my  good  fortune  to  spend  a  week 
or  two  in  the  house  where  the  twenty  volumes 
live ;  and  there  on  sleepy  afternoons,  when  the 
sofa  and  the  shady  corner  invite  to  repose,  I  take 
one  of  my  green-gray  friends,  and  settle  myself 
comfortably  among  the  pillows,  and  have  a  delight- 
ful hour  or  two.  Sometimes  the  volume  is  dull : 
it  may  be  almost  taken  up  with  pedigrees,  and  the 
reasons  why  the  Duke  of  Pompon  had  no  right  to 
put  forward  his  right  foot  instead  of  his  left  when 
he  presented  the  Soap-dish  for  the  washing  of  the 
Eoyal  Hands.  But  if  it  is  dull,  I  go  to  sleep,  and 
on  waking  get  another  volume  instead.  I  have 
never  fallen  upon  two  dull  ones  in  succession.  And 
sometimes  I  find  most  delightful  things,  —  such 
queer  stories  that  I  am  fain  to  take  paper  and 
pencil  and  write  them  down. 

From  one  special  volume  I  have  made  a  good 
many  notes  since  I  wrote  my  first  sketch  of  the 


AN  ODD    VOLUME.  103 

terrible  little  Duke,  —  in  fact,  I  have  a  bundle  of 
them  now  before  me,  and  am  minded  to  copy  some 
of  them  very  much  as  they  stand. 

On  the  first  scrap  of  paper  I  find  an  account  of 
the  tragic  end  of  La  Varenne,  Henry  the  Fourth's 
body-servant,  and  "Mercury"  of  the  pleasures  of 
that  gallant  and  volatile  monarch.  La  Varenne 
began  life  as  a  scullion,  and  after  a  while  rose  to 
be  cook,  and.  a  good  cook  too.  Being  an  ambitious 
fellow,  with  a  quick  eye,  moreover,  and  a  merry 
tongue  and  ready  wit,  he  managed  to  attract  the 
notice  of  the  King,  and  bowed  and  smiled  himself 
up  from  one  position  to  another,  till  he  gained  the 
confidence  of  his  royal  master,  who  found  him  of 
great  assistance  in  his  numerous  love-affairs. 

To  be  in  favor  with  the  King  is  to  be  idolized  by 
the  court.  Great  people  bowed  to  La  Varenne ; 
dukes  had  an  affable  word,  and  perhaps  something 
more  than  a  word,  for  him ;  stately  marchionesses 
nodded  graciously  to  him,  and  made  him  pretty 
little  condescending  speeches.  By  hook  or  by 
crook  (perhaps  the  latter  word  expresses  his 
methods  better),  La  Varenne  grew  rich,  even  enor- 
mously rich,  and  forgot  that  he  had  been  a  cook. 
Grew  pious  also,  and  was  largely  instrumental  in 
re-establishing  the  Jesuits  in  France.  Finally, 
after  the  death  of  Henry  IV.,  he  retired  to  the 
monastery  of  La  Fleche,  and  prepared  to  make  his 
salvation,  as  they  say  in  France.  Between  the 
pangs  of  remorse  he  amused  himself  with  hunting 


104      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

and  hawking  in  the  wooded  country  around  the 
monastery ;  and  so  it  chanced  upon  a  day  that  he 
was  "  flying  a  magpie"  (I  never  knew  that  one  did 
fly  magpies  ;  but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there), 
when  suddenly  the  bird  perched  on  the  branch  of  a 
tree,  and  turning  its  head  towards  the  pious  sports- 
man, cried  out,  "Mackerel!"  La  Varenne  was 
thunderstruck ;  trembled  in  every  limb,  and  felt 
that  a  miracle  had  occurred.  In  vain  his  followers 
tried  to  reassure  him,  saying  that  this  bird  had  be- 
longed to  a  man  of  the  neighboring  village,  who 
had  taught  it  to  speak.  No  ;  La  Varenne  did  not 
believe  a  word  of  it.  Balaam  had  been  reproved 
by  an  ass,  why  not  he  by  a  magpie  ?  His  sins 
were  brought  before  him.  "  Mackerel !  "  That  is 
to  say,  "  This  is  the  man  that  cooked  the  mackerel, 
that  bought  the  mackerel,  that  cheated  his  master  in 
regard  to  the  mackerel.  This  is  the  cook,  the  cook, 
the  rascal  cook,  who  is  pranking  it  here  as  a  great 
man,  and  making  his  salvation,  and  singing  psalms 
1  entuned  in  his  nose  ful  fetysly.'  This  is  the  cook, 
the  rascal  cook,  who  is  now  found  out,  and  shall 
perish  in  his  misdoings."  Now,  we  never  should 
have  imagined  that  "  mackerel "  meant  all  that ; 
but  it  did  mean  it  to  poor  La  Varenne.  "  He  left  the 
chase,"  says  Saint-Simon,  "  went  home,  took  to  his 
bed,  sickened  of  a  fever,  and  died  in  three  days." 

Let  this  be  a  warning  to  all  cooks  ! 

What  is  the  next  note  ?  Oh,  it  is  about  Monsieur 
the  Duke  of  Chevreuse,  that  excellent  man,  who 


;lxV  ODD    VOLUME.  105 

was  a  little  absent-minded.  It  appears  that  his 
horses  were  often  kept  harnessed  twelve  or  fifteen 
hours  at  a  time,  his  dukeship  ordering  them,  and 
straightway  forgetting  that  he  had  done  so.  On 
one  such  occasion  the  postilion  became  weary,  and 
went  off,  leaving  the  horses  to  their  own  devices. 
The  animals,  after  waiting  as  much  longer  as  equine 
patience  is  greater  than  human,  determined  to  take 
matters  into  their  own  hands,  or  rather  feet.  A 
frightful  noise  was  heard  in  the  court-yard,  and 
every  one  ran  out.  There  was  the  carriage,  broken 
into  "smithereens."  The  gates  were  smashed,  the 
fences  battered  down,  the  whole  place  in  the  utmost 
disorder,  the  exasperated  horses  dancing  about  on 
their  hind-legs  amid  the  ruin  they  had  wrought. 
Every  one  was  in  confusion,  we  are  told,  except 
the  owner  of  the  carriage,  who,  hearing  no  noise 
whatever,  continued  to  work  tranquilly  at  his  desk. 
Another  day  the  Duke's  steward,  Sconin  by  name, 
came  from  the  country  to  see  him  on  matters  of 
business,  and  sending  in  his  name,  was  requested 
to  walk  for  half-an-hour  in  the  garden,  and  then 
return.  The  half-hour  passed,  and  many  other 
half-hours.  M.  de  Chevreuse  spent  the  day  in 
cheerful  industry,  and  was  told  at  seven  o'clock  in 
the  evening  that  his  steward  was  waiting  to  see 
him.  Overwhelmed  with  self-reproach,  the  good 
Duke  sent  for  him  to  come  instantly. 

"  Ah,  my  poor  Sconin,"  he  cried,  as  the  patient 
waiter  entered,  hat  in  hand,    "  I  owe  you  many, 


106     GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

many  apologies  for  having  made   you   lose   your 
whole  day ! " 

"  Not  at  all,  my  Lord  Duke,"  replied  Sconin, 
with  deferential  smiles.  "  I  have  had  the  honor  of 
knowing  your  lordship  these  many  years ;  and 
perceiving  this  morning  that  the  half-hour  was 
likely  to  be  a  long  one,  I  went  to  Paris,  where  I 
have  spent  the  day  attending  to  various  affairs ; 
and  I  am  but  just  returned  to  place  myself  at  your 
lordship's  service." 

This  reminds  me  of  La  Bruyere's  famous  "  char- 
acter" of  the  absent-minded  man,  in  which  he 
describes,  under  the  name  of  Menalcas,  a  certain 
unhappy  Brancas,  the  butt  of  the  court: 

"  Menalcas  comes  downstairs,  opens  the  door, 
shuts  it  again :  he  perceives  that  his  nightcap  is 
still  on  ;  and  examining  himself  a  little  better, 
finds  but  one  half  of  his  face  shaved,  his  sword  on 
his  right  side,  and  his  stockings  hanging  about  his 
heels.  If  he  walks  into  the  street,  he  feels  some- 
thing strike  him  on  the  face  or  stomach ;  he  cannot 
imagine  what  it  is,  till,  opening  his  eyes  and  look- 
ing, he  finds  himself  before  the  shaft  of  a  cart,  or 
behind  a  plank  on  a  carpenter's  shoulders.  He  has 
been  seen  to  run  against  a  blind  man,  push  him 
backwards,  and  fall  over  him.  He  enters  the 
drawing-room,  and  passing  under  a  sconce,  his 
periwig  hitches,  and  is  left  hanging.  The  courtiers 
stare  and  laugh ;  Menalcas,  too,  joins  in  the  laugh, 
and  looks  about  for  the  poor  mortified  Baldpate, 


AN  ODD   VOLUME.  107 

who  has  lost  his  wig.  In  his  walks  he  takes  it  into 
his  head  that  he  is  out  of  his  way,  is  in  a  fret, 
stands  still,  and  asks  such  as  pass  by  where  he  is. 
They  tell  him,  in  the  very  street  where  he  lives. 
He  enters  his  own  house,  runs  out  in  haste,  fancy- 
ing himself  mistaken.  He  comes  out  of  the  palace, 
and  finding  a  coach  at  the  steps,  takes  it  to  be  his 
own,  throws  himself  into  it ;  the  coachman  whips 
on,  thinking  all  the  while  he  is  driving  his  master 
home.  Menalcas  leaps  out,  crosses  the  courtyard, 
trips  upstairs,  runs  into  the  apartment,  where  he 
sits  down  and  reposes  himself  as  at  his  own  house. 
The  master  of  the  house  coming  in,  he  rises  up  to 
receive  him,  treats  him  very  ceremoniously,  prays 
him  to  sit,  and  believes  he  is  paying  the  civilities 
he  uses  to  his  visitants.  He  talks,  muses,  and 
talks  again.  The  master  of  the  house  is  tired  and 
astonished,  and  Menalcas  as  much  as  he ;  he  will 
not  say  what  he  thinks,  but  supposes  the  other  to 
be  some  very  impertinent  and  idle  person,  who  will 
at  last  think  fit  to  withdraw.  He  bears  with  this 
odd  person,  yet  it  may  be  night  before  Menalcas 
finds  himself  in  the  wrong  place.  This  is  he  who, 
coming  into  a  church,  and  taking  the  blind  man  at 
the  door  for  a  pillar,  and  his  dish  for  the  holy-water 
pot,  dips  in  his  hand  and  crosses  his  forehead, 
when  on  a  sudden  he  hears  the  pillar  speak  and 
beg  his  alms.  He  walks  towards  the  choir,  where, 
fancying  to  see  a  desk,  he  throws  himself  on  his 
knees.  The  machine  bends,  pushes  him,  and  strives 


108     GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

to  cry  out;  Menalcas  is  surprised  to  find  himself 
kneeling  on  the  legs  of  a  very  little  man,  resting 
against  his  back,  his  two  arms  over  his  shoulders, 
and  his  joined  hands  taking  him  by  the  nose  and 
stopping  his  mouth.  He  retires  confused,  and 
kneeling  elsewhere,  takes  out  of  his  pocket  a 
prayer-book,  as  he  thinks  ;  but  it  is  only  a  slipper 
which  he  had  inadvertently  pocketed.  While  he 
was  playing  at  backgammon,  he  called  for  a  glass 
of  lemonade  :  the  cast  was  his,  and  having  the  box 
in  one  hand,  and  the  glass  in  the  other,  being  very 
thirsty,  he  gulps  down  the  dice,  and  almost  the 
box,  while  the  liquor  is  impetuously  thrown  on  the 
table,  and  half  drowns  his  antagonist."  And  so 
on,  through  six  pages  more  of  the  dear  little  brown 
book  where  wit  and  wisdom  "  compacted  lie." 

But  let  us  return  to  Saint-Simon.  On  my  next 
slip  of  paper  is  an  account  of  the  Duke  of  Mazarin, 
who  "  died  in  1712,  on  his  estates,  to  which  he 
retired  some  thirty  years  ago."  "  He  was  over 
eighty  years  old,"  says  Saint-Simon,  "  and  was  no 
loss  to  any  one,  so  much  had  a  certain  singularity 
of  mind  perverted  excellent  natural  gifts."  He 
then  goes  on  to  say  that  the  contemporaries  of 
this  so  undesirable  Duke  remembered  the  time 
when  he  was  agreeable  and  witty,  and  the  best 
company  in  the  world ;  was  well-instructed,  mag- 
nificent, possessing  exquisite  taste,  a  favorite  with 
the  King,  and  enormously  rich.  But  in  his  later 
years  a  singular  thing  happened  to  him.  He  was 


AN  ODD    VOLUME.  109 

attacked  with  piety  as  with  a  disease.  Repenting 
of  his  own  sins,  he  conceived  it  to  be  his  duty  to 
convert  the  Grand  Monarque,  and  made  many 
attempts  ;  and  finding  himself  become  obnoxious  to 
his  once  loving  sovereign,  he  retired  to  his  splendid 
country-seat,  where  he  gave  full  rein  to  his  pious 
eccentricities,  —  to  what  we  should  call  to-day  his 
religious  mania.  In  ordering  his  household,  he 
chose  his  officers  by  lot,  "being  assured  that  in 
this  way  he  should  learn  the  exact  will  of  God  in 
each  particular  case."  Thus  his  scullion  became  his 
steward,  his  steward  was  turned  into  the  kitchen, 
and  ordered  to  assume  the  scullion's  apron  and 
scour  the  soup-kettle  ;  the  gardener  mounted  the 
coach-box,  while  the  coachman  did  dreadful  things 
with  the  cabbages  and  roses.  Soon  the  Duke  cast 
eyes  of  pious  horror  on  the  long  galleries  in  which 
reposed  the  magnificent  collection  of  objects  of  art 
amassed  during  patient  years  of  toil  by  his  uncle 
the  Cardinal,  and  bequeathed  by  him  "as  a  rich 
legacy  to  his  issue ; "  namely,  to  our  eccentric  Duke. 
Here  were  antique  statues,  priceless  treasures  of 
Greek  art ;  here  were  Raphaels  and  Titians,  and 
I  know  not  what  other  precious  things.  Yes, 
but  they  were  irreligious,  perhaps  immoral ;  they 
attracted  the  eye  by  their  meretricious  beauty, 
they  drew  the  mind  away  from  the  contemplation 
of  its  sins.  Away  with  them  !  And  the  Duke  took 
a  hammer,  —  yes,  he  did,  —  and  smashed  the  finest 
statues,  and  daubed  red  paint  over  the  most 


110      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

beautiful  pictures,  and  ramped  and  raged  through 
the  noble  gallery  till  it  was  a  piteous  scene  of 
wrack  and  ruin. 

One  night  the  castle  —  great  castle  of  Mazarin, 
rich  and  splendid,  with  towers  and  fantastic 
pinnacles  and  all  manner  of  magnificence  —  caught 
fire.  It  was  crammed  from  cellar  to  roof  with 
treasures,  —  fruits  of  the  Cardinal's  long  time  of 
cunning  greed.  The  affrighted  servants  ran  to  the 
rescue,  and  fought  the  fire  like  valiant  Frenchmen, 
with  buckets  of  water,  with  hand-engines,  —  finally, 
with  success.  And  the  Duke  stood  screaming  and 
stamping  the  while,  calling  down  curses  upon  the 
impudent  scoundrels  who  dared  to  oppose  the  good 
pleasure  of  the  Lord  God. 

It  was  a  great  joy  to  the  Duke  when  any  one 
brought  a  lawsuit  against  him :  if  he  lost  it,  he 
ceased  to  possess  something  which  did  not  belong 
to  him ;  if  he  gained,  he  was  absolutely  sure  that 
it  was  his  by  right.  He  drove  his  servants  to 
desperation  by  incessant  inquiries  into  the  motives 
of  every  action  of  their  lives.  His  daughters 
growing  up  comely  and  pleasant  to  look  upon,  he 
resolved  to  have  all  their  front  teeth  pulled  out, 
for  fear  they  should  become  vain  of  their  good 
looks.  Possessed  at  one  time  by  a  restless  spirit, 
he  travelled  about  for  several  years  from  place  to 
place,  carrying  with  him  the  body  of  his  wife,  who 
had  died  in  England.  She  was  his  cousin,  the  once 
beautiful  and  always  superb  Hortense  Mancini. 


JAr  ODD   VOLUME.  Ill 

She  had  led  a  wild,  strange,  wholly  unprofitable 
life  since  the  days  when  her  youthful  beauty  and 
brilliance  enchanted  the  French  court,  and  a  crowd 
of  illustrious  suitors  (among  them  Charles  II.  of 
England  himself,  then  a  crownless  exile)  sued  for 
her  lovely  hand.  Married  to  her  cousin  the  Duke, 
she  soon  found  him  unendurable,  abandoned  her 
vast  wealth,  and  fled  to  Rome,  to  Piedmont,  —  where 
not  ?  One  has  glimpses  of  her,  now  riding  by 
night  "  in  a  horse-boy's  trim,"  now  pranking  it  like 
a  peacock  before  the  astonished  eyes  of  Italian 
dames  and  maidens  ;  but  she  finally  grew  weary,  and 
settled  in  England.  She  was  in  the  King's  gallery 
at  Whitehall  the  night  before  Charles  was  seized 
with  his  last  illness :  you  can  read  all  about  it  in 
your  Macaulay.  Now  she  was  dead  too,  and  her 
lunatic  husband  sent  for  her  body,  and,  as  I  said, 
carried  it  about  with  him  for  years,  here,  there,  and 
everywhere.  At  last  he  came  to  the  end  of  his 
many  millions,  or  nearly  to  the  end  ;  he  continued 
to  be  governor  of  Alsace,  and  one  wonders  how  it 
was  governed.  He  retired,  as  Saint-Simon  told  us 
at  first,  to  his  country-seat,  and  there  lived  till  lie 
died.  Saint-Simon  saw  him  once,  and  thought 
him  wanting  in  wit.  We  may  think  that  the  S 
should  have  been  added. 

Here  is  another  pious  person:  it  is  good  that 
there  were  some  of  them,  even  if  they  were  not 
very  wise.  The  Duchess  of  Charost  died  about 
this  time  (1"18),  after  more  than  ten  years  of 


112     GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

illness,  during  which  time  she  was  never  moved 
from  her  bed,  saw  no  light,  heard  no  noise.  She 
could  neither  hear  nor  speak  more  than  a  few 
words  at  a  time,  and  that  only  at  rare  intervals. 
Twice  or  thrice  in  the  year  she  had  her  linen 
changed,  and  received  extreme  unction  after  each 
exhausting  toilet.  The  devotion  of  the  Duke  her 
husband  during  all  this  time  was,  according  to 
Saint-Simon,  alike  praiseworthy  and  inconceivable  ; 
and  she  was  sensible  of  it,  for  her  mind  remained 
perfectly  clear  to  the  day  of  her  death,  and  she 
manifested  a  patience,  a  virtue,  a  piety,  which 
never  failed,  but  rather  increased  from  day  to  day. 
In  lively  contrast  with  this  saintly  couple,  here 
on  the  next  slip  is  an  account  of  the  Due  de  la 
Rochefoucauld,  grandson,  we  may  suppose,  of  the 
famous  intriguer  of  the  Fronde,  the  author  of  the 
world-renowned  Maxims.  It  was  the  custom  of 
the  heads  of  this  noble  house  to  concentrate  all 
their  attention,  all  their  parental  affection,  on  the 
direct  heir  to  the  title.  For  younger  sons  and 
daughters  they  cared  not  a  whit,  but  packed  them 
off  to  nunneries,  to  the  church,  and  to  the  island 
of  Malta  as  soon  as  they  were  old  enough.  In 
this  way  the  fortunate  eldest  could  inherit  all  the 
possessions  of  the  house  of  La  Rochefoucauld,  and 
nothing  was  scattered  or  divided.  The  judicious 
thriftiness  of  this  plan  will  be  apparent  to  all. 
The  first  Duke  had  ten  children.  Three  of  the  four 
sons  were  promptly  devoted  to  celibacy,  —  some  as 


^V  ODD   VOLUME.  113 

priests,  some  as  abbe's,  one  as  a  Knight  of  Malta. 
Of  the  six  daughters,  five  meekly  took  the  veil  as 
they  were  bid ;  the  sixth  had  a  will  of  her  own, 
and  stoutly  refused  to  enter  the  cloister,  vowing 
that  she  nmst  and  would  have  a  husband.  Great 
was  the  consternation  of  the  heads  of  the  house. 
A  husband  ?  Why,  that  meant  a  dowry  !  Who  ever 
heard  of  a  girl  behaving  in  this  way  ?  Remon- 
strances, threats,  and  entreaties  were  all  in  vain ; 
and  at  length  Fortune,  or  some  mocking  elf  in 
her  semblance,  came  to  the  aid  of  the  recalcitrant 
maiden.  A  certain  Monsieur  de  Sillery  appeared, 
whose  family  was  under  a  cloud,  for  reasons  with 
which  we  have  no  concern.  He,  for  the  sake  of  an 
alliance  with  so  brilliant  a  house  as  that  of  La 
Rochefoucauld,  was  willing  to  take  Mademoiselle 
without  a  dowry. 

He  was  clasped  to  the  family  bosom ;  the  pair 
•were  married,  and  ruined  themselves,  I  quite 
forget  how,  not  long  after. 

But  these  obstacles  in  the  frugal  path  of  the  first 
Duke  were  nothing  to  those  which  beset  the  third, 
the  one  with  whom  we  have  now  to  do,  in  this  year 
of  our  Lord  and  of  Saint-Simon's  journal  1712. 
He  had,  it  seems,  only  two  sons;  but  he  had 
many  grandchildren,  and  among  them  one  far 
more  troublesome  than  the  unruly  damsel  described 
above.  His  eldest  son  was  made  Due  de  La 
Rocheguyon,  married  Louvois'  daughter,  and  had 
eight  sons  and  two  daughters.  With  the  daughters, 
8 


114     GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

who  were  mild  and  unresisting,  we  have  no  con- 
cern. Of  the  sons,  the  first,  second,  and  third  died, 
and  hence  arose  all  the  trouble ;  for  the  fourth 
son  had  been  made  an  abbe,  and  here  was  he  now, 
the  heir  of  the  family,  loaded  with  clerical  posses- 
sions, and  with  the  succession  besides,  and  unable, 
for  his  vows,  to  marry  and  produce  in  his  turn  an 
heir.  The  thing  for  him  to  do,  clearly,  was  to 
take  full  orders,  and  relinquish  title  and  succession 
to  his  next  brother,  the  Comte  Durtal.  But  this 
the  Abbe  had  no  mind  to  do.  He  had  no  vocation 
for  a  religious  life ;  they  had  made  him  an  abbe, 
an  abbe  he  would  remain,  and  would  be  a  duke  too, 
whenever  messieurs  his  father  and  grandfather 
should  be  called  away  by  an  overruling  Providence 
from  the  cares  of  life.  Here  was  a  pretty  state  of 
things  !  The  two  Dukes  stormed,  wept,  entreated ; 
the  Abbe  remained  courteous,  gentle,  respectful,  but 
firm.  They  set  priests  upon  him,  — bishops,  monks, 
and  holy  friars,  the  most  eloquent  and  persuasive 
in  France ;  the  Abbe  was  immovable.  Then,  after 
much  counsel,  a  new  step  was  determined  upon. 
The  rebellious  son  and  grandson  was  requested  to 
give  up  all  semblance  of  churchmanhood,  if  I  may 
coin  such  a  word,  and  to  become  a  layman  pure  and 
simple.  But  this,  again,  the  young  man  declined. 
His  benefices  yielded  him  sixty  thousand  livres  of 
rent :  why  should  he  give  them  up  ?  There  was 
no  possible  use  in  appealing  to  his  tender  feelings 
of  filial  and  grand-filial  love,  for  he  had  no  such 


AN  ODD    VOLUME.  115 

feelings.  All  through  his  childhood  and  youth  he 
had  been  restricted,  browbeaten,  bullied ;  he  had 
not  even  had  enough  to  eat,  —  such  was  the  family 
passion  for  economy  and  accumulation :  now,  he 
was  master  of  the  situation. 

Baffled  at  every  turn,  the  Dukes  tried  yet  another 
venture,  and  this  time  a  very  bold  one.  The  old 
Duke,  who  was  now  blind,  and  had  "entered  the 
chrysalis,"  as  Saint-Simon  puts  it,  caused  himself  to 
be  led  to  the  cabinet  of  the  King.  In  the  ears  of 
royalty  he  rehearsed  his  piteous  tale,  and  poured 
out  all  the  woes  of  his  house,  which  was  about  to 
be  reduced  to  beggary  by  the  obstinacy  of  his 
grandson,  who  wished  to  eat  out  of  two  mangers  at 
once.  He  wept,  he  cried  aloud,  he  tore  his  vener- 
able locks.  The  King,  who  was  really  riot  ill- 
natured  when  there  was  no  question  of  himself  or 
his  own  dignity,  was  much  moved  at  seeing  his 
ancient  servant  in  such  distress.  What  could  he 
do  for  him  ?  Why,  he  could,  by  royal  decree, 
take  the  dukedom  of  La  Rocheguyon  away  from 
the  ungrateful  Abbs,  and  settle  it  on  the  Comte 
Durtal  and  his  descendants,  thus  grafting  a  new 
branch,  and  establishing  a  new  succession.  Louis, 
aghast  at  this  unheard-of  proposition,  the  bare 
thought  of  which  makes  Saint-Simon  turn  rigid 
with  horror,  demurred;  whereupon  fresh  cries,  tears, 
rending  of  locks,  —  in  short,  such  violent  hysterics 
that  the  King,  half  through  compassion  for  this  old 
man  whom  he  had  always  loved,  half  through 


116     GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

desire  to  end  so  painful  a  scene,  yielded,  and 
granted  the  request.  It  was  done  !  Strange  to  say, 
Europe  did  not  become  convulsed  with  emotion. 
No  earthquake  followed,  no  tidal  wave,  no  comet 
darting  baleful  influences.  People  ate  and  drank 
and  went  about  their  various  business  as  if  there 
were  no  La  Roche foucaulds  in  the  world,  —  which 
shows  how  heartless  humanity  in  general  is.  It  is 
melancholy  to  think  that  after  all  this  trouble  had 
been  taken,  the  Abbe  died  of  small-pox,  at  thirty 
years  old.  "  Small-pox  took  him,"  says  Saint- 
Simon,  "and  delivered  his  father  and  brother  of 
him.  Subsequent  events  in  this  family  have  not 
led  people  to  believe  that  God  had  blessed  these 
arrangements." 

What  next  ?  Old  Brissac  died  in  1713,  aged 
eighty-five  years.  He  was  lieutenant-general,  and 
governor  of  Guise,  and  had  been  for  many  years 
major  of  the  royal  body-guard.  He  was  a  gen- 
tleman in  a  very  small  way  (un  tres  petit  gen- 
tilhomme :  it  is  impossible  to  -convey  in  English 
the  amount  of  contempt  with  which  Saint-Simon 
describes  this  rank),  who  had  pleased  the  King 
by  his  industry,  his  assiduity,  his  attention  to 
details,  his  absolute  devotion  to  the  royal  person, 
and  his  total  disregard  of  all  other  persons.  Thus 
it  came  to  pass  that  he  became  a  very  important 
factor  in  court  intrigues.  Great  lords  and  great 
generals  were  anxious  to  gain  his  good  will,  and 
no  one  ventured  to  displease  him.  He  was  rough, 


,1.V  ODD    VOLUME.  117 

brutal,  very  disagreeable,  and  excessively  spoiled 
by  the  King;  but  withal  a  man  of  honor  and  virtue, 
of  worth  and  probity,  esteemed  and  hated  by  many 
people,  and  justly  regarded  as  very  dangerous. 
He  had  a  peculiar  sort  of  humor,  which  may  be 
judged  of  by  the  following  incident :  — 

Every  evening  there  were  public  prayers  in  the 
chapel  of  Versailles,  followed  by  a  benediction, 
with  the  blessing  of  the  Host  every  Sunday  and 
Thursday.  Tn  winter  the  benediction  was  at  six 
o'clock,  in  summer  at  five,  so  that  people  could  go 
to  walk  afterwards.  The  King  never  missed  going 
on  Sunday,  and  very  rarely  on  Thursday  in  winter. 
At  the  end  of  the  service,  a  "blue  boy"  (do  not 
ask  me  what  a  blue  boy  was,  for  my  author  gives 
no  explanation)  ran  to  call  the  King,  who  arrived 
a  moment  before  the  benediction ;  but  whether  he 
came  or  not,  the  benediction  never  waited  for  him. 
(Saint-Simon  mentions  this  as  if  it  were  something 
quite  remarkable.)  The  officers  of  the  body-guard 
stationed  several  guards  in  the  tribune,  from  which 
his  Majesty  always  heard  the  benediction.  The 
pious  ladies  of  the  court  seldom  failed  to  decorate 
the  recesses  of  the  tribune  (garnir  les  travees)  with 
their  presence,  and  in  winter  they  drew  attention 
to  themselves  by  little  candles,  which  they  carried, 
ostensibly  to  light  their  breviaries,  but  in  reality, 
our  spiteful  little  Duke  hints,  to  light  up  their  own 
faces.  Regularity  at  these  services  was  a  merit, 
and  every  one,  old  and  young,  desired  to  obtain 


118     GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

merit  in  the  eyes  of  the  King  and  Madame  de 
Maintenon.  Brissac,  tired  of  seeing  at  their  devo- 
tions women  whom  rumor  did  not  represent  as 
troubling  themselves  much  about  their  salvation  in 
every-day  life,  gave  the  word  one  day  to  the  officer 
of  the  guard.  Accordingly,  during  the  services 
that  officer  appears  in  the  recess  usually  occupied 
by  the  King,  strikes  his  stick  on  the  ground,  and 
exclaims,  in  a  tone  of  authority,  "  Guards  of  the 
King,  retire :  the  King  does  not  come  to  the  bene- 
diction ! "  The  guards  depart ;  Brissac  conceals 
himself  behind  a  pillar.  A  great  murmur  is  heard 
among  the  recesses,  which  are  full  of  ladies;  a 
moment  after,  each  fair  one  blows  out  her  candle, 
and  departs,  in  such  sort  that  no  one  remains  save 
Madame  de  Dangeau  and  two  others  of  little  con- 
sequence (assez  du  commun). 

This  took  place  in  the  old  chapel.  The  officers, 
who  had  been  forewarned,  had  concealed  their  men 
on  staircases  and  in  corners ;  and  when  Brissac  had 
allowed  time  enough  for  the  ladies  to  get  beyond 
earshot,  he  gave  the  word  to  re-station  the  guards. 
All  was  so  exactly  managed  that  no  sooner  were 
the  men  at  their  posts  than  the  King  arrived,  and 
the  benediction  began.  His  Majesty,  who  always 
took  pleasure  in  surveying  the  rows  of  kneeling 
ladies,  and  observing  who  was  and  who  was  not 
there,  was  beyond  measure  astonished  to  see  no  one 
in  the  entire  chapel,  save  Madame  de  Dangeau  and 
the  two  other  poor  good  souls  whose  names  were 


.-1AT  ODD   VOLUME.  119 

not  worth  mentioning.  He  spoke  of  it  as  he  was 
coming  out,  "avec  un  grand  etonnement."  The 
malicious  Brissac,  who  was  walking  by  him,  began 
to  laugh,  and  related  the  trick  he  had  played  on 
the  court  devotees,  of  whom  he  was  weary  of  seeing 
his  Majesty  the  dupe.  The  King  laughed  heartily 
at  the  recital :  the  story  spread  like  wild-fire.  The 
names  of  the  unhappy  maids  and  matrons  were 
buzzed  about  with  gibe  and  laughter,  and  there 
were  many  fair  hands  which  would  gladly  have 
scratched  out  the  eyes  of  the  lieutenant  of  the 
body-guards. 

One  anecdote  leads  to  another.  On  the  next 
page  Saint-Simon  is  reminded  (a  propos  des  bottes) 
of  the  Archbishop  of  Auch,  Desmarets  by  name, 
who  spent  his  life  (such  part  of  it  as  fell  under 
our  author's  lynx-eyes)  in  a  furnished  aparment  in 
Paris,  and  in  his  dressing-gown,  seeing  no  one,  and 
refusing  to  open  any  of  the  letters  which  he  was 
constantly  receiving.  The  King,  hearing  of  this, 
thought  it  would  be  well  for  the  Very  Reverend  to 
retire  to  his  archbishopric,  and  gave  orders  to  that 
effect.  The  carrying  out  of  the  orders,  however, 
proved  difficult.  The  good  prelate  had  long  ago 
spent  all  his  money,  and  was  reduced  to  borrowing, 
in  order  to  obtain  the  necessaries  of  life.  Nobody 
would  lend  him  money  to  go  home ;  the  King  said 
he  must  go.  What  was  to  be  done?  Finally  his 
secretary  —  one  cannot  help  wondering  what  the 
secretary  had  been  doing  all  this  time  —  proposed 


120     GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

to  him  to  attack  the  mountain  of  unopened  letters 
which  encumbered  his  salon.  Who  could  tell? 
There  might,  among  all  these  notes  and  packets, 
be  something  which  might  be  converted  into  cash. 
The  Archbishop,  being  at  the  end  of  his  resources, 
consented,  with  a  bad  grace.  The  secretary  fell 
upon  the  mass  of  documents,  and  found  among 
them  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pounds,  in 
bills  of  exchange  of  various  dates,  within  reach  of 
which  his  patron  and  himself  had  been  dying  of 
hunger.  Monsieur  the  Archbishop  put  on  his  coat, 
and  went  home.  He  ought  to  have  gone  to  a 
lunatic  asylum. 

Here  I  turn  over  a  number  of  leaves  in  my 
odd  volume.  I  do  not  care  much  about  the 
"  inconceivable  blackness "  of  a  certain  courtier 
(Pontchartrain  it  was),  who,  by  peeping  from  back 
windows,  ferreted  out  a  secret  of  Saint- Simon's, 
—  something  about  a  command  of  militia  which  he 
wished  to  get,  and  went  straight  to  the  King  and 
got  the  command  himself.  I  am  sorry  to  learn 
that  my  fiery  Duke  swore  solemnly  to  sacrifice  all 
his  own  fortune,  greatness,  and  favor,  all  his  goods, 
and  all  that  might  be  of  advantage  to  him  in  life, 
to  the  ruin  and  radical  overthrow  of  Pontchartrain, 
never  allowing  anything  to  prevent  him  from  work- 
ing ceaselessly  at  this  ruin,  never  for  an  instant  to 
be  turned  away  by  any  consideration  whatever 
from  the  furthering  of  this  ruin.  In  vain  did  the 
father  and  mother  of  the  ruinee-elect,  excellent 


^1AT  ODD   VOLUME.  121 

friends  of  our  author's,  throw  themselves  at  his 
inexorable  knees,  weep  and  implore  and  conjure. 
He  esteemed  them,  he  loved  them;  but  their  son 
should  enjoy  his  stolen  command,  and  he,  Saint- 
Simon,  Avould  enjoy  the  hope  and  pleasure  of 
working  with  all  his  soul  and  all  that  was  in 
him,  and  without  relaxation,  to  uproot  and  over- 
whelm the  said  son.  This  was  certainly  not  wha* 
my  old  nurse  would  have  called  "pretty -behaved;  " 
but,  as  I  say,  I  do  not  care  very  much.  Pont- 
chartrain  probably  deserved  punishment,  and 
probably  got  it.  "We  shall  see  farther  on," 
cries  the  Duke,  "what  his  iniquity  cost  him!" 
But  the  sequel  is  not  in  my  volume. 

But  I  turn  over  a  number  of  pages,  and  soon 
come  to  something  of  public  interest.  It  was  the 
year  1713,  the  year  of  the  Peace  of  Utrecht. 
"The  affair  of  the  renunciations,"  says  Saint- 
Simon,  "was  ripe.  The  peace  was  made.  The 
King  was  urged  by  his  own  closest  interests  to 
see  it  signed;  and  the  court  of  England,  to  which 
we  owed  it  entirely,  was  no  less  anxious  to  con- 
summate this  great  work,  in  order  that  it  [the 
court]  might  enjoy,  together  with  the  glory  of 
having  imposed  the  peace  on  all  the  powers,  that 
domestic  repose  which  had  been  so  long  broken  by 
the  anti-peace  party.  This  party,  urged  on  by 
enemies  of  the  peace  abroad,  ceased  not  to  give 
trouble  and  disquiet  to  the  ministers  of  the  Queen 
as  long  as  the  delay  in  signing  the  treaty  gave 


122     GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

them  still  hope  of  preventing  the  signature  alto- 
gether. The  King  of  Spain  had  made  his  renun- 
ciation of  the  French  succession  with  all  possible 
solemnity;  it  only  remained  for  the  King  of  France 
to  imitate  him.  All  has  been  said  on  this  mat- 
ter," he  continues,  "that  can  be  said."  And  then 
he  proceeds  to  say  a  good  deal  more.  It  is  not 
xiow  a  question  of  vital  interest  whether,  if  the 
little  sickly  creature  who  was  to  be  Louis  XV.  had 
died,  as  everybody  supposed  he  would,  the  King 
of  Spain  would  have  kept  his  promises.  Xobody 
in  the  least  believed  that  he  would  keep  them, 
though  everybody  pretended  to  believe  it.  Sup- 
pose it  for  our  purpose  that  the  promises  were 
made,  and  that  those  on  the  French  side  were  now 
to  be  solemnly  announced  to  the  Parliament  of 
Paris.  .  .  . 

"  That  supreme  worship  [it  is  Saint-Simon  who 
speaks]  of  his  authority  which  his  Majesty  guarded 
so  jealously,  because  its  solid  establishment  had 
been  the  dearest  and  most  constant  work  of  all  his 
long  life,  must  not,  therefore,  be  infringed  upon  in 
the  smallest  degree,  either  by  the  novelty  of  the 
occasion,  or  by  its  supreme  importance  both  at 
home  and  abroad,  or  by  the  consideration  of  his 
own  family,  or  by  the  thought  that  at  his  age  he 
must  of  necessity  soon  leave  this  pomp  and  splen- 
dor to  which  he  had  sacrificed  everything,  and  ap- 
pear naked  before  his  God,  even  as  the  meanest  of 
his  subjects.  All  that  could  be  done  to  render  this 


AN  ODD   VOLUME.  123 

occasion  specially  solemn  was  to  secure  the  assist- 
ance of  the  peers.  So  great  was  his  [the  King's] 
delicacy  of  feeling,  that  he  would  have  contented 
himself  with  saying  in  general  that  it  was  his 
desire  that  the  peers  should  be  present  when  the 
Parliament  met  to  hear  the  renunciations.  I  knew 
of  this  four  days  beforehand.  I  spoke  to  several 
people,  and  I  told  the  Duke  of  Orleans  that  if  the 
King  contented  himself  with  such  an  annoimce- 
nient,  he  might  be  sure  that  no  single  peer  would 
attend  the  Parliament,  and  that  it  was  for  him,  the 
Duke  of  Orleans,  to  make  some  better  arrange- 
ment, as  no  peer  would  go,  unless  he  were  per- 
sonally invited  by  the  grand  master  of  ceremonies, 
according  to  custom.  This  firm  advice  .  .  .  pre- 
vailed. The  Duke  of  Orleans  and  the  Duke  of 
Berry  spoke  to  the  King,  and  insisted  on  the 
point,  so  that  Dreux  [apparently  the  master  of 
ceremonies  in  question]  went  in  person  to  all  the 
peers  who  had  lodgings  at  Versailles,  and  if  he 
did  not  find  them,  left  a  note  informing  them,  in 
the  King's  name,  that  on  such  a  day  the  Parliament 
would  deal  with  very  important  matters,  and  that 
his  Majesty  desired  their  presence.  .  .  .  Finally, 
this  is  what  passed:  The  sitting  was  to  be  opened 
by  a  compliment  from  the  first  president  of  Mesmes 
to  the  Duke  of  Berry,  who  was  to  make  a  reply. 
[The  Duke  of  Berry,  be  it  remembered,  was  the 
second  son  of  Monseigneur  the  Dauphin,  and 
brother  of  the  lamented  Duke  of  Burgundy,  who 


124      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

had  died  the  year  before  this.]  The  Duke  was  in 
great  trouble  about  his  speech.  He  confided  his 
distress  to  Madame  de  Saint-Simon,  and  she  man- 
aged to  obtain  a  copy  of  the  president's  speech, 
and  gave  it  to  the  Duke,  that  he  might  regulate 
his  reply  by  it.  This  work  seemed  to  him  too 
difficult,  and  he  confessed  to  Madame  de  Saint- 
Simon  that  he  could  not  do  it.  She  proposed  to 
consult  me,  and  he  was  enchanted  with  the  idea. 
I,  accordingly,  wrote  a  reply  of  a  page  and  a  half 
of  ordinary  letter  paper,  written  in  a  plain  hand. 
The  Duke  liked  it  very  well,  but  found  it  too  long 
to  commit  to  memory.  I  shortened  it.  He  wished 
it  to  be  still  shorter,  so  that  finally  it  was  no  more 
than  three-quarters  of  a  page  in  length.  Behold 
it,  therefore,  ready  for  him  to  learn.  He  accom- 
plished the  feat  (il  en  vint  a  bout],  and  recited  it 
in  his  cabinet  the  evening  before  the  session  to 
Madame  de  Saint-Simon,  who  encouraged  him  as 
well  as  she  could.  On  Wednesday,  March  15, 
I  went  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  the  Duke 
of  Berry's  apartment,  in  full  parliament  dress, 
and  shortly  after  the  Duke  of  Orleans  arrived  in 
similar  costume,  with  a  great  suite.  About  half- 
past  six  these  two  princes  entered  the  Due  de 
Berry's  carriage,  the  Due  de  Saint- Aignan  and 
I  taking  the  front  places." 

I  spare  my  readers  the  details  of  the  procession, 
not  a  single  chamberlain  of  which  is  omitted  by 
our  devoted  author;  but  I  must  not  forget  to  say 


AX    ODD    VOLUME.  125 

that  the  Due  cle  Berry  was  very  silent  on  the 
way.  The  two  princes  were  received  with  all 
possible  honors.  There  were  footcloths,  and  cano- 
pies, and  cushions,  and  compliments,  and  low  mass 
in  the  chapel.  Finally  the  president  and  two  coun- 
cillors met  them  at  the  chapel  door,  and  escorted 
them  to  the  great  hall.  How  did  they  go?  Why, 
the  Due  de  Berry  walked  first,  with  a  president 
on  each  side,  and  behind  him  walked  the  captain 
of  his  guards  with  a  baton  (whether  to  keep  the 
princes  or  the  presidents  in  order,  is  not  stated). 
Next  came  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  between  the  .two 
councillors —  No,  I  am  wrong!  Fatal  mistake! 
The  Duke  of  Orleans  came  first,  preceded  by 
Saint-Simon,  he  in  turn  by  Saint- Aignan.  The 
crowd  of  officers  and  fools  of  quality  followed 
confusedly. 

The  great  hall  was  packed  so  full  that  not  a  pin 
could  have  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  aspiring  sight- 
seers had  climbed  up  on  every  attainable  coign  of 
vantage.  The  seance  was  complete  when  the  Duke 
of  Berry  appeared;  that  is  to  say,  the  princes  of 
the  blood,  the  peers,  and  the  Parliament  were 
assembled.  Of  course  you  are  dying,  dear  reader, 
to  hear  the  names  of  all  the  peers  of  France, 
present  and  absent;  but  I  cannot  indulge  you. 
The  whole  great  assembly  rose  when  the  two 
Great  Ones  appeared,  and  remained  standing  and 
uncovered  till  they  had  taken  their  sublime 
places. 


126      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

The  supreme  moment  had  come.  Again  I  yield 
the  floor  to  Saint-Simon:  "The  Duke  of  Berry 
being  in  place,  there  was  some  difficulty  in  obtain- 
ing silence.  As  soon  as  he  could  be  heard,  the 
first  president  made  his  compliments  to  the  Duke 
of  Berry.  When  he  had  finished,  it  was  the  turn 
of  this  prince  to  reply.  He  half  raised  his  hat, 
put  it  on  again,  looked  at  the  first  president,  and 
said,  '  Monsieur  —  '  After  a  moment's  pause  he 
repeated,  '  Monsieur  —  '  He  looked  at  the  audience, 
and  said  again,  '  Monsieur  — '  He  turned  to  the 
Duke  of  Orleans,  who,  like  himself,  was  redder 
than  fire,  then  to  the  first  president,  and  finally 
remained  fixed,  nothing  further  than  '  Monsieur ' 
having  come  out  of  his  mouth.  I  was  opposite 
the  fourth  president,  and  saw  in  full  view  the  dis- 
order of  the  prince.  I  sweated  for  him,  but  there 
was  no  remedy.  He  turned  once  more  to  the  Duke 
of  Orleans,  who  bowed  his  head.  Both  were  over- 
whelmed. Finally,  the  president,  seeing  that  there 
was  no  other  resource,  finished  this  cruel  scene  by 
taking  off  his  cap  to  the  Duke  of  Berry,  and  making 
a  low  bow,  as  if  the  reply  were  finished ;  and  then 
he  told  the  King's  officers  to  proceed  with  their 
address." 

Who  can  read  this,  who  can  picture  to  himself 
the  scene,  without  "  sweating,"  like  Saint-Simon, 
for  the  wretched  little  prince?  We  can  imagine 
him  sitting  through  the  interminable  seance,  eating 
his  heart  out  with  shame  and  rage.  When  it  was 


AX  ODD   VOLUME.  127 

over  at  last,  instead  of  going  to  hide  his  head  in 
a  corner,  as  he  would  fain  have  done,  he  was  forced 
to  sit  for  more  wearisome  hours  through  a  state 
banquet,  at  which  he  appeared  like  a  statue  of 
gloom,  depressing  the  spirits  and  stilling  the 
tongues  of  all  in  his  neighborhood.  Xor,  this 
over  in  its  turn,  was  the  end  yet  for  him.  He 
arrived  at  Versailles  with  the  Duke  of  Orleans, 
and  found  a  message  waiting  for  them  both.  The 
Duchess  of  Tallard  had  been  married  the  evening 
before,  and  was  now  receiving  visits  on  the  bed 
of  the  Duchess  of  Ventadour.  Would  the  princes 
graciously  come  at  once?  The  reception  was 
nearly  over,  and  the  bride  was  only  waiting  for 
them  before  she  descended  from  the  bed  of  state. 
There  was  no  escape,  so  the  princes  went  directly 
to  pay  their  respects.  At  the  reception  they  met, 
among  others,  the  Princess  of  Montauban,  a  noto- 
rious flatterer,  who,  having  heard  no  word  of  what 
passed  at  Paris,  began  to  cry  out,  as  soon  as  she 
saw  the  Duke  of  Berry,  that  she  was  charmed  with 
the  grace  and  eloquence  of  his  speech  before  the 
Parliament,  and  rang  every  change  upon  this  theme 
that  she  could  possibly  make.  The  unhappy  Duke 
blushed  furiously,  and  without  replying,  hastened 
towards  the  bed  whereon  the  bride  was  receiving; 
the  Princess  followed  him,  redoubling  her  com- 
pliments, and  praising  his  modesty  in  glowing 
terms.  He  made  his  bow  to  the  bride,  muttered 
a  few  words,  and  retired,  pursued  to  the  very  door 


128      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

by  his  unconscious  tormentor,  whose  last  words 
informed  him  that  all  Paris  was  ringing  with  the 
praise  of  his  eloquence. 

At  last,  at  last,  the  poor  wretch  found  himself 
in  his  own  cabinet,  with  the  faithful  Madame  de 
Saint-Simon,  who  had  been  summoned  in  haste, 
Here  he  41ung  himself  into  an  arm-chair,  cried  out 
that  he  was  dishonored,  and  burst  into  a  tempest 
of  passion,  crying  aloud,  "a  hauts  cris,"  and  weep- 
ing hot  tears  of  shame  and  mortification.  Amid 
his  sobs  he  told  the  miserable  story  to  the  sym- 
pathetic lady-in-waiting,  who  was  "dying  of  com- 
passion," her  husband  tells  us.  After  long  and 
bitter  weeping,  he  suddenly  broke  into  a  fury,  and 
accused  the  Due  de  Beauvilliers  and  the  King  of 
having  purposely  neglected  his  education. 

"They  have  thought  of  nothing,"  he  cried,  "  save 
of  abasing  me,  and  stifling  my  natural  abilities.  I 
was  a  younger  son;  I  was  opposed  to  my  brother. 
They  feared  the  consequences,  and  they  annihilated 
me.  I  was  taught  how  to  hunt  and  gamble,  and 
nothing  else;  and  they  have  succeeded  in  making 
ine  a  fool  and  a  beast,  incapable  of  anything,  and 
who  will  never  be  fit  for  anything,  but  will  be  the 
jest  and  laughing-stock  of  the  world," 

This  strange  tete-a-tete  lasted  two  hours,  until  it 
was  time  to  go  to  the  King's  supper;  and  the  next 
day  the  transports  of  grief  began  again. 

I  wish  we  could  think  that  the  poor  youth  had 
really  learned  one  lesson,  and  that  he  profited  by 


.-LV  ODD   VOLUME.  129 

this  bitter  medicine;  but  I  find  no  further  mention 
of  the  Duke  of  Berry  in  public  life.  If  his  wife 
had  been  a  different  woman,  there  might  have  been 
some  chance  for  him;  but  she  was  the  daughter  of 
Philip  of  Orleans,  and  was  more  of  a  devil  than 
a  human  being,  by  all  accounts.  So  there  is 
nothing  for  us  to  do  but  pull  off  our  caps,-  like  the 
first  president,  and  bow  in  compassionate  silence 
to  the  poor,  neglected,  ruined,  "stickit"  grandson 
of  the  Grand  Monarque. 


TLTRENNE. 

"SEDAN.  A  fortress  and  frontier  town  of  France, 
in  the  Department  of  Ardennes.  Pop.  13,501." 
I  quote  from  the  encyclopaedia.  The  name  of 
Sedan  is  familiar  to  every  child,  the  associations 
with  it  being  twofold.  Our  first  thought  is  that 
of  the  sedan-chair,  which  was  invented  in  this 
place  about  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
We  see  the  pretty  toy  of  a  conveyance,  richly 
ornamented  and  gilded,  with  its  two  bearers  gor- 
geous in  gold  lace  and  powder.  As  we  look  at  it 
with  the  eye  of  fancy,  its  door  opens,  and  out 
step  lady  and  gallant  and  page,  ancient  dame  and 
blooming  damsel,  all  be-wigged,  be-flowered,  be- 
f urbelowed,  —  most  of  them  painted.  Out  they 
step  daintily  in  their  high-heeled  shoes  and  clocked 
stockings,  waving  fans,  and  flourishing  gold-headed 
canes  and  snuff-boxes.  Out  they  step,  and  away 
they  trip  —  whither?  Nay,  that  I  cannot  tell. 
Ask  his  Eeverence  yonder  if  he  knows.  A  sedan- 
chair  now  is  a  thing  to  be  put  in  a  museum  and 
looked  at,  if  it  is  an  ornamental  one ;  if  it  is  plain 
and  unadorned,  to  be  broken  up  for  kindling  wood. 
The  last  one  used  in  England  was  in  Cranford,  and 
all  the  beloved  old  ladies  went  out  to  tea  in  it,  as 


TURENNE.  131 

you  may  read  in  Mrs.  Gaskell's  book.  One  other 
did  exist,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  in  Constanti- 
nople, some  seventeen  years  ago.  My  bones  still 
remember  an  awful  hour  when  two  genies  out  of 
the  Arabian  .Nights,  turbaned,  swarthy,  barefooted; 
seized  the  poles  of  the  Thing  in  which  I  trembling 
sat,  and  rushed  madly  through  the  uneven  streets 
of  the  Golden  City.  "  There  was  a  crooked  man, 
and  he  went  a  crooked  mile,"  says  the  nursery 
ditty ;  certainly,  if  1  was  not  a  permanently  crooked 
woman  after  my  wild  ride,  it  was  owing  to  what 
Jules  St.  Ange  calls  a  "specious  providence." 

So  much  for  our  first  association  with  the  name 
of  Sedan.  The  second  is  not  so  cheerful  —  is,  in 
fact,  sinister  to  a  degree.  Looking  once  more  at 
the  pretty  town  on  the  banks  of  the  Meuse,  we  see 
it  surrounded  by  hostile  armies:  on  every  side 
the  Prussian  eagles,  the  Prussian  helmets ;  Kaiser 
Wilhelm  and  Unser  Fritz  leading,  directing,  com- 
manding ;  thousands  of  voices  singing  the  "  Wacht 
am  Rhein; "  thousands  of  hearts  burning  to  avenge 
the  century-old  wrongs  of  the  Fatherland  against 
the  false  Franks;  the  memory  of  the  Palatinate,  the 
garden  of  Germany,  laid  waste  by  our  own  Grand 
Monarque  and  his  Luxembourg,  kept  alive  from 
father  to  son,  burning  in  a  thousand  bosoms. 
This,  outside  the  walls ;  inside,  a  vast  army  cooped 
up,  with  no  adequate  leader,  no  discipline,  no 
knowledge.  Plenty  of  heroism ;  but  these  are  not 
the  days  of  Bayard  and  the  Cid,  and  heroism  alone 


132      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

does  not  win  battles  to-day.  Nominally  at  the 
head  of  the  confused  mass,  the  pinchbeck  Majesty 
we  all  remember, — the  unclean  vulture  who  had 
disported  himself  so  long  in  eagle's  feathers,  and 
was  now  to  be  plucked  bare  of  his  borrowed  plumage. 
On  Sept.  1,  1870,  after  a  terrific  contest,  the  whole 
French  army  surrendered:  Emperor,  thirty-nine 
generals,  two  hundred  and  thirty  staff-officers, 
twenty-six  hundred  officers,  and  eighty-three  thou- 
sand men,  all  in  one  day  prisoners  of  war. 

So  much  for  Sedan;  for,  after  all,  the  town  is  not 
the  subject  of  my  paper.  In  the  town,  however, 
chanced  to  be  born,  in  1611,  HKNRI  DE  LA  TOUR 
D'AUVERGNE. 

He  was  the  seaond  son  of  his  parents,  and  took 
the  title  of  viscount,  his  elder  brother  calling  him- 
self Sovereign  of  Sedan.  Not  very  long  had  the 
town  and  its  surrounding  lands  belonged  to  the 
family  of  La  Tour  d'Auvergne;  for  it  was  only  in 
the  time  of  Henry  IV.  that  Henri  de  La  Tour 
d'Auvergne,  Viscount  Turenne,  had  married  the 
last  heiress  of  the  famous  name  of  De  la  Marck, 
who  brought  him  Sedan  and  the  duchy  of  Bouillon 
as  her  marriage  portion.  I  should  like  to  pause  a 
while  over  the  De  la  Marcks,  — a  wild,  fierce  race, 
who  for  two  centuries  held  their  own  against  the 
Bishop  of  Liege  and  the  Dukes  of  Burgundy  and 
Lorraine.  But  time  presses,  and  have  we  not 
Quentin  Durward  to  tell  us  quite  as  much  as  we 
care  to  know  about  the  De  la  Marck  of  his  time, 


TUREX^'E.  133 

otherwise  known  as  the  Wild  Boar  of  Ardennes? 
When  the  bridegroom  of  Mademoiselle  de  la  Marck 
(let  us  hope  she  was  not  tusked,  like  her  ancestor) 
called  himself  Sovereign  of  Sedan,  and  set  up  for 
an  independent  sovereign,  Henry  IV.  promptly 
besieged  the  city,  and  took  it  in  three  days.  He 
seems,  however,  to  have  made  friends  with  La 
Tour  d'Auvergne,  and  allowed  him  to  keep  his 
sovereignty  under  conditions.  This  Sovereign  of 
Sedan  was  the  father  of  our  hero.  His  eldest  son 
took,  as  we  have  seen,  the  title;  but  being  of  a 
conspiring  turn  of  mind,  he  was  constantly  in 
trouble,  and  finally,  on  being  found  to  have  taken 
part  in  the  conspiracy  of  Cinq-Mars,  he  was 
deprived  of  his  principality,  which  was  attached 
by  the  Crown.  Viscount  Henri,  our  hero,  was  a 
delicate  boy,  not  strong  enough,  it  was  thought, 
for  a  soldier;  yet  on  the  profession  of  arms  his 
heart  was  absolutely  set.  He  is  said  to  have  baen 
slow  in  learning,  and  his  lessons  were  largely 
whipped  into  him,  poor  lad!  Yet  he  was  fond  of 
history  and  biography,  and  read  over  and  over 
again  the  life  of  Alexander  the  Great,  while  Caasar 
and  Quintus  Curtius  were  his  constant  study. 
Considering  steadfastly  his  Alexander,  he  set 
himself  to  tame  a  Bucephalus;  and  showed,  we 
are  told,  remarkable  skill,  courage,  and  persever- 
ance in  breaking  horses.  In  1624,  being  then 
thirteen  years  old,  he  persuaded  his  mother  (for 
his  father  had  died  the  year  before)  to  let  him  pay 


134      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

a  visit  to  his  uncle  Maurice  of  Nassau;  for  his 
mother  was  Elizabeth  of  Nassau,  daughter  of  the 
great  William  of  Orange.  Gruff  Maurice  smiled 
at  the  boy  soldier  when  he  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
see  some  service,  — smiled  from  under  that  remark- 
able felt  hat  which  we  all  remember,  with  a  rope  of 
diamonds  twisted  round  it, — and  wishing  to  test 
his  spirit  and  endurance,  told  him  he  might  enter 
the  army  as  a  simple  soldier.  But  the  future 
Grand  Marshal  was  not  to  be  frightened  iu  that 
way,  and  had  served  three  months  in  the  ranks, 
with  right  good  will,  when  Uncle  Maurice  died. 
Uncle  Frederick  Henry,  being  made  of  less  stern 
stuff,  made  the  boy  a  captain  of  infantry,  in  1626 ; 
and  the  next  year  he  was  fighting  against  Spinola, 
under  his  uncle's  command. 

For  five  years  young  Turenne  remained  in  the 
Dutch  service,  gaining  experience  principally  in 
the  attack  and  defence  of  strong  places;  he  then 
returned  to  France. 

In  1634  Louis  XIII.  gave  him  command  of  a 
regiment  of  infantry,  and  we  find  him  assisting  at 
the  siege  of  La  Motte,  a  fortress  in  Lorraine.  The 
Marechal  de  la  Force  conducted  the  siege;  and 
having  made  a  breach  in  one  of  the  bastions,  he 
sent  a  storming  party  against  it,  led  by  his  own 
nephew.  The  nephew  and  his  party  were  repulsed, 
and  it  was  the  young  Turenne  who,  an  hour  later, 
captured  the  bnstion.  and  planted  the  royal  flag  on 
its  summit.  This  exploit  won  golden  opinions  for 


TURENXE.  135 

the  young  soldier,  and  he  was  made  field-marshal 
at  twenty-three  years  of  age. 

About  this  time  De  Grammont  tells  us  an  anec- 
dote which  is  more  characteristic  of  the  times  than 
of  Turenne  in  particular.  The  young  Viscount  had 
received  a  wound  in  the  shoulder  while  command- 
ing the  French  troops  in  the  service  of  the  Duchess 
of  Savoy ;  and  this  little  incident  may  have  occurred 
while  he  was  withdrawn  from  active  service.  Being 
in  a  company  of  young  officers,  he.  or  some  one  else, 
suggested  a  game  of  cards  to  while  away  the  time. 
All  were  enchanted  with  the  idea,  but,  alas!  their 
pockets  were  empty.  "He  was  by  nature  a  man 
of  merriment,  and  rejoined  that  although  he  was 
averse  to  deep  play,  it  should  never  be  said  that 
they  did  not  know  how  to  amuse  themselves.''  He 
therefore  proposed  that  each  officer  should  stake 
his  horse.  De  Grammont  was  one  of  the  party,  and 
won  fifteen  or  eighteen  horses  (whether  fairly  or 
not,  he  omits  to  mention;  though  sometimes  the 
Chevalier  boasts  most  cheerfully  of  his  successful 
cheating),  and  Turenne,  though  he  was  one  of  the 
heaviest  losers,  was  delighted  with  the  popularity 
of  his  game.  This  is  one  of  the  few  foolish  things 
the  great  man  did  in  his  life. 

Now  followed  many,  many  years  of  hard  fight- 
ing. In  Germany  first,  against  Mercy,  against 
John  de  "Werth;  now  superseded  without  reason 
by  Conde  (always  his  rival  in  a  way),  and  obeying 
the  command  of  King  Louvois  without  a  murmur. 


136      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

"The  grand  example,"  says  his  biographer,  Gen- 
eral Cust,  himself  a  soldier  and  a  commander, 
"should  not  be  lost  on  military  men:  submission 
is  as  much  the  duty  of  the  highest  as  of  the  private 
soldier  in  the  ranks."  This  lesson,  by  the  way, 
Conde  himself  never  learned. 

Now  joining  forces  with  Swedish  Wrangel,  we 
find  him  observing  with  amazement,  in  common 
with  the  rest  of  Europe,  the  strange  and  mole-like 
proceedings  of  the  Archduke  Leopold,  who,  having 
buried  himself  (and  his  army)  under  accumulated 
earthworks,  refused  to  move  for  king  or  kaiser. 
Finding  it  impossible  to  dislodge  this  archducal 
burrower,  Turenne  and  Wrangel  contented  them- 
selves  with  burning  the  great  magazine  which  was 
to  furnish  the  mole-army  with  food,  and  went  their 
way.  Then  he  took  Treves,  and  in  order  to  do  it, 
swam  across  the  Rhine  with  his  whole  army,  the 
horse  carrying  the  foot-soldiers  on  their  cruppers. 
Of  course  the  city  could  not  resist  so  very  marked 
an  attention  as  this,  and  it  yielded  very  promptly. 
Then —  But  stop!  that  was  before  he  burned  the 
Archduke's  magazine,  not  after.  Let  me  beware, 
and  give  heed  to  niy  steps,  treading,  as  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  has  it,  "softly  and  circumspectly  in  this 
funambulatory  track  and  narrow  path."  Before 
UK-  lies  a  huge  morass,  a  black  and  bottomless 
bog,  topped  by  a  wilderness  of  matted  and  twisted 
growth.  Its  name  is  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  and 
I  was  once  wellnigh  drowned  in  it,  escaping  hardly 


TUREXNE.  137 

with  my  life  and  wits.  Follow  you  into  its  depths, 
my  Marshal?  Not  if  I  know  it!  Come  out,  like  the 
honest  fellow  you  are,  and  leave  Wrangel  and 
Piccolomini  to  wrangle  and  pick  hollow  many  at 
their  ease  or  discretion. 

Ah,  but  you  burned  the  Palatinate,  Marshal! 
Let  that  be  a  blot  upon  your  white  shield,  now  and 
forever.  "True!"  you  may  answer,  "I  did  lay 
waste  that  fair  garden,  at  my  Master's  command; 
my  business  being  to  do  what  he  bids  me.  Yet 
he  was  not  content,  and  forty  years  later  he  con- 
demned it  to  such  a  devastation  as  made  all  that  I 
did,  seem  the  sport  of  a  child." 

Turenne's  cruelties,  when  he  was  forced  to  com- 
mit them,  were  done  in  sadness.  Hear  how  other 
men  played  the  infernal  game.  Hear  how  Luxem- 
bourg writes  to  Conde,  after  he  has  burned  two 
large  villages  in  Holland  one  morning:  "There 
was  a  grill  of  all  the  Hollanders  who  were  in  those 
burghs,  not  one  of  whom  was  let  out  of  the  houses. 
This  morning  we  were  visited  by  two  of  the  enemy's 
drummers,  who  came  to  claim  a  colonel  of  great 
note  among  them  (I  have  him  in  cinders  at  this 
moment),  as  well  as  several  officers  whom  we  have 
not,  and  who  are  demanded  of  us.  They  were 
killed,  I  suppose,  at  the  approaches  to  the  villages, 
where  I  saw  several  rather  pretty  little  heaps." 
What  a  light  and  graceful  touch ;  what  a  charming 
vein  of  humor!  And  I  think  it  probable  that  the 
hero  of  Hocroi  was  highly  diverted  by  the  letter. 


138      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

After  this,  Turenne  was  ordered  to  Flanders,  and 
then  ordered  back  again ;  and  —  and  —  But  we  are 
at  the  brink  of  the  dismal  swamp  again.  Back  to 
France,  Marshal,  writer,  and  readers! 

Have  yon  ever  heard  of  the  little  fish  who  found 
the  frying-pan  uncomfortably  warm,  and  jumped 
out  of  it?  What  is  this  that  awaits  us  in  France  ? 
To  change  our  metaphor.  We  have  left  Charybdis, 
howling,  on  our  left,  and  here  before  us,  baring 
her  white  teeth,  and  gnashing  the  same  ominously, 
glares  Scylla. 

La  Fronde:  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  permit  me 
to  introduce  you.  What!  you  have  met  before  ? 
You  know  this  —  lady,  shall  I  call  her  ?  See,  she 
is  all  flashing  with  jewels;  her  costume  is  regu- 
lated —  I  should  say  wigulated  —  by  the  latest 
fashions.  She  simpers,  and  courtesies,  and  cuts 
your  throat  with  a  pearl-handled  knife,  or  smoth- 
ers you  with  a  feather  fan,  singing  and  laughing 
all  the  while  in  the  most  engaging  manner  pos- 
sible. And  she  can  toss  you  up  a  barricade  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye:  and  smash  your  windows 
with  one  hand,  while  she  waves  you  a  kiss  with  the 
other. 

And  what  will  this  lady  —  nay,  let  us  give  her 
right  name,  and  call  her  Gorgon,  Harpy,  She- 
Griffin,  Basilisk!  —  what  will  she  do  with  M. 
de  Turenne,  marshal,  soldier,  and  honest  man? 
Why,  she  will  throw  dust  in  his  eyes,  and  con- 
fuse and  bewilder  him  as  thoroughly  as  ever 


TURENXE.  139 

honest  man  was  confounded  and  bewildered.  "In 
August,  1648,"  says  General  Gust,  "the  people  of 
the  French  capital  were  occupied  at  the  same 
moment  in  singing  a  Te  Deum  for  a  victory,  and 
in  overturning  the  Government,  and  besieging  the 
Queen  Regent  in  her  palace."  Yes,  we  knew  that 
before.  Why?  Apparently  because  Cardinal  de 
Retz  had  given  them  arms,  and  told  them  to  erect 
barricades.  Voltaire  says:  "Cardinal  de  Retz 
boasts  of  having  armed,  unaided,  the  whole  popu- 
lation of  Paris  in  the  so-called  '  Day  of  the  Barri- 
cades.' He  was  a  man  who  breathed  faction  and 
plot  ;  he  had  been  the  soul  of  a  conspiracy  against 
the  life  of  Richelieu;  he  was  the  originator  of  the 
barricades ;  he  threw  the  Parliament  into  cabals, 
and  the  people  into  seditions,  all  in  order  that 
he  might  be  talked  about." 

Well,  the  Queen-Regent,  with  many  tears,  im- 
plored Conde  to  protect  the  young  King.  The 
hero,  breathing  fire  and  fury,  besieged  the  city. 
The  Parliament,  driven  to  arms  in  their  defence, 
appointed  the  Prince  de  Conti.  brother  of  Conde, 
generalissimo  of  their  forces,  and  the  Due  de 
Bouillon,  brother  of  Turenne,  and  formerly  Sov- 
ereign of  Sedan,  second  in  command.  Mazarin, 
the  wily,  saw  at  once  the  danger  of  the  younger 
brother  taking  the  side  on  which  the  elder  had 
declared  himself,  and  sent  a  messenger  post-haste 
to  Germany,  where  Turenne  still  was.  The  mes- 
senger carried  most  agreeable  letters  from  both 


140      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

Queen-Regent  and  Cardinal.  The  Marshal  was  to 
be  made  Governor  of  Alsace,  was  to  have  some 
additional  plum  as  equivalent  for  the  Principality 
of  Sedan  (which  was  not  his,  and  might  never 
have  been  his),  and  moreover,  if  it  pleased  him, 
to  marry  the  Cardinal's  niece.  Was  not  this  a 
dainty  dish  to  set  before  the  Marshal?  Turenne's 
reply  was  frank  and  bold,  as  became  a  soldier. 
He  declined  to  receive  any  favor  during  a  time  of 
political  trouble.  As  to  Mademoiselle  de  Mancini, 
he  thanked  the  Cardinal  for  the  offer  of  her  hand, 
but  declined  it,  on  the  score  of  a  difference  in 
religion.  (Turenne  had  been  brought  up  in  the 
Protestant  faith,  and  it  was  not  until  some  years 
after  this  that  he  joined  the  Catholic  Church.  In 
any  case,  however,  one  can  well  understand  that 
he  did  not  wish  one  of  the  fair  Mancinis  for  his 
wife.  One  is  really  sorry  for  these  three  beau- 
tifiil  and  brilliant  young  women,  who  were  used  as 
tools  and  decoy-ducks  by  their  uncle  on  so  many 
occasions.  They  were  not  particularly  virtuous. 
Indeed,  two  of  them,  Hortense  and  Marie,  were 
very  much  the  reverse;  but  one  feels  as  if  they 
had  hardly  had  a  fair  chance.)  Moreover  (I  return 
to  Turenne's  letter),  the  Marshal  disapproved  of 
a  blockade  of  Paris,  as  improper  during  the 
minority  of  the  Sovereign.  Finally,  he  was  about 
to  bring  his  army  across  the  Rhine  and  back  into 
France,  in  accordance  with  his  instructions,  but  he 
should  take  no  part  in  the  contest,  and  should 


TURENNE.  141 

declare  neither  for  Regent  nor  for  Parliament. 
This  was  straightforward  enough,  but  it  would 
not  do  for  the  Cardinal.  "He  who  is  not  with 
me  is  against  me,"  thought  that  astute  statesman. 
"  I  will  have  no  neutral  commanders,  with  armies 
at  their  backs  which  they  can  set  against  me  when- 
ever they  happen  to  change  their  mind."  Accord- 
ingly, he  sent  money  to  pay  the  troops,  and  orders 
to  disband  them.  And  Turenne,  after  quietly 
obeying  the  orders,  withdrew  into  Holland,  with 
fifteen  or  twenty  followers,  and  waited  the  course 
of  events.  By  and  by  came  a  lull,  — the  Treaty  of 
Kuel  they  called  it;  it  was  in  1648.  Both  parties 
rested  on  their  arms,  and  Turenne  came  home. 
He  went  to  pay  his  court  to  the  Queen,  and  was 
politely  received  by  the  Cardinal,  who,  however, 
showed  him  plainly  that  he  was  not  trusted.  For 
his  own  part,  he  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  the 
state  of  affairs.  De  Ketz  said  happily  enough  of 
him,  "He  was  thought  more  capable  of  being  at 
the  head  of  an  army  than  at  that  of  a  party." 
Certainly,  the  bluff  soldier  seems  to  have  been,  as 
I  said  before,  easily  bewildered,  and  entangled  in 
the  cobwebs  of  faction;  and  Messieurs  Mazarin 
and  De  Retz  were  too  much  for  him.  When  the 
clouds  thickened  again,  and  swords  began  to  clash, 
he  naturally  inclined  to  the  side  of  Conde,  a  soldier 
and  his  old  comrade  in  arms,  though  there  was  no 
special  love  between  them.  But  he  had  made  no 
open  declaration,  when  one  morning  the  startling 


142      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

news  came  that  the  Cardinal  had  arrested  the 
Prince  of  Conde,  and  sent  him  to  prison  at  Vin- 
cennes.  "But  Conde  had  just  been  commanding 
the  army  of  Queen  and  Cardinal  ! "  cries  some 
bewildered  reader.  Yes,  I  know  that.  But  this 
is  the  Fronde,  I  must  ask  you  to  remember.  The 
Prince  had  sided  with  royalty  in  the  beginning, 
because  he  thought  his  position  as  first  prince  of 
the  blood  demanded  it.  But  he  despised  and 
detested  Mazarin,  took  no  pains  to  hide  his  feel- 
ings, and  on  the  very  day  of  the  Treaty  of  Kuel 
had  declared  that  he  had  done  all  he  could  to 
uphold  the  government,  but  would  not  be  bound 
for  the  future  by  the  past.  Mazarin  offered  him 
the  command  of  the  army  of  Flanders,  with  thirty 
thousand  men ;  but  he  refused,  out  of  sheer  disgust 
at  the  giver.  Utterly  ungoverned,  unreasonable, 
and  inconsiderate,  it  really  seemed  sometimes,  as 
a  French  writer  says,  as  if  the  Prince  had  no  other 
idea  in  his  head  than  that  of  sowing  trouble  around 
him,  and  making  himself  disliked. 

When  the  little  King  entered  Paris,  on  August 
18,  1G50,  Prince  and  Cardinal  were  in  the  same 
carriage  together.  Finding  himself  well  received 
by  the  city,  Mazarin  determined  to  repay  the'inso- 
lence  of  Conde;  he  therefore  promptly  refused 
thelatter's  request  of  a  position  for  his  brother-in- 
law,  the  Due  de  Longueville.  This  the  haughty 
Prince  took  as  a  declaration  of  war,  and  he  thought 
proper  to  chuck  the  Cardinal- Minister  very  rudely 


TURENNE.  143 

under  the  chin,  exclaiming,  "  Farewell  —  but !  " 
This  hint  was  rightly  interpreted  by  Mazarin  to 
mean  fire  and  hailstones.  He  adroitly  managed  to 
make  Conde  quarrel  with  the  Parliament,  while  he 
himself  was  making  friends  with  them;  this  done, 
he  and  De  Retz,  and  Queen  and  Parliament,  joined 
hands;  Conde,  Conti,  and  De  Longueville  were 
arrested  as  they  were  entering  the  Council  at  the 
Palais  Iloyal,  and  presto!  off  they  were  whisked 
to  Vincennes.  And  the  people  of  Paris  lighted 
bonfires,  and  set  off  fireworks,  because  the  hero 
and  defender  of  France  was  put  into  a  dungeon ! 

Xow,  this  was  extremely  puzzling  to  M.  de 
Turenne,  who  was,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  little 
dense  when  not  in  the  field.  He  did  not  appar- 
ently realize  that  to  break  with  the  Cardinal  was 
to  set  himself  against  the  King.  His  relations 
with  Conde  were  not  in  the  least  such  as  would 
warrant  his  upholding  him  in  rebellion  against 
their  sovereign;  but  he  was  indignant  at  the  way 
in  which  the  Prince  had  been  treated,  and  without 
stopping  to  weigh  the  consequences,  he  refused  a 
second  offer  of  Mademoiselle  de  Mancini's  hand, 
with  other  good  things,  and  left  Paris  for  Steuay, 
which  was  held  by  friends  of  the  Prince.  Here 
came  also  at  this  time  the  Duchess  de  Longue- 
ville, Conde 's  sister,  and  a  very  fascinating  woman. 
To  what  extent  this  siren  bewitched  our  Marshal, 
it  is  difficult  to  tell;  but  we  find  him  shortly  selling 
his  plate,  raising  and  borrowing  money  wherever 


144      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

he  could,  and  working  with  might  and  main  for 
the  cause  of  Coale  and  the  Duchess.  Worse, 
alas!  —  and  this  is  an  ineffaceable  blot  on  his 
honest  and  loyal  character,  — we  find  him  negotiat- 
ing with  the  Comte  de  Fuensaldana,  and  making, 
together  with  the  Duchess,  a  formal  treaty  with 
Philip  IVc  of  Spain,  in  which  that  potentate  agreed 
to  stand  by  them  till  Coude  should  be  released  from 
prison. 

This  particular  turn  of  the  kaleidoscope,  then, 
shows  Turenne  in  command  of  Spanish  troops, 
joined  with  his  old  opponent,  Archduke  Leopold  (of 
burrowing  fame),  righting  against  king  and  coun- 
try to  release  from  prison  a  man  whom  he  cared 
personally  nothing  about.  Truly,  a  singular 
combination ! 

The  war  was  waged  with  varying  success,  now 
on  this  side,  now  on  that.  On  the  whole,  the 
Royalists  had  the  advantage ;  and  at  the  battle  of 
Retch,  Turenne  suffered  a  total  defeat  at  the  hands 
of  the  detested  Cardinal,  who  commanded  in  person, 
and  (in  spite  of  an  attack  which  he  in  turn  received 
from  General  Gout,  a  free-lance  of  great  reputation) 
charged  himself  at  the  head  of  the  Koyal  Guard. 
This  was  a  great  mortification ;  but  Turenne  bore 
it  like  a  soldier.  When  asked  by  one  of  the  people 
who  do  ask  such  questions,  how  he  had  lost  the 
battle,  "Through  my  own  fault,"  he  replied;  "but 
when  a  man  has  made  no  blunders  in  war,  it  is 
because  he  has  not  yet  seen  much  service." 


TURENNE.  145 

On  the  13th  of  February,  1651,  the  Prince  was 
set  at  liberty,  and  returned  in  triumph  to  Paris, 
the  people  once  more  lighting  bonfires  and  fire- 
works, because  he  was  free,  as  they  had  done  when 
he  was  imprisoned. 

Turenne  was  offered  a  free  pardon  by  the  King; 
but  considering  himself  bound  in  some  manner  to 
Spain,  he  held  back  until  a  treaty  should  be  estab- 
lished between  the  two  countries.  Negotiations 
were  opened,  but  proved  fruitless;  and  Turenne, 
after  two  months'  honest  endeavor  to  bring  about 
a  peace,  thought  himself  absolved  from  his  engage- 
ments, and  repaired  to  Paris.  Here  he  was  received 
with  open  arms  by  the  Condes  and  De  Longuevilles, 
and  very  coldly  by  the  Queen,  who  was  in  a  bad 
temper  on  account  of  the  exile  of  Mazarin.  Never- 
theless, when  Conde  began  at  once,  as  usual,  to 
quarrel  with  every  one,  and  when  he  and  his  charm- 
ing sister  used  all  their  persuasions  to  induce 
Turenne  to  join  them  again,  he  refused  point- 
blank;  he  had  done  quite  enough.  At  heart  he 
was  truly  loyal  to  his  King;  he  had  been  drawn 
once  to  swerve  from  his  allegiance,  but  once  was 
enough.  The  Prince  used  every  argument  to  win 
over  his  great  comrade.  It  is  an  interesting  scene 
to  call  up:  the  two  great  soldiers  walking  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  under  the  great  trees  in  the 
park  of  St.  Maur, — the  one  impassioned,  fiery, 
bearing  down  all  opposition;  the  other  quiet,  self- 
contained,  saying  little,  perhaps,  but  holding  his 

10 


146      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

own,  and  confronting  the  fiery  waves  of  Conde's 
eloquence  with  a  silence  of  adamant. 

He  remained  with  the  King;  and  when  Conde 
once  more  unfurled  the  standard  of  revolt,  on 
Jan.  30,  1652,  he  knew  that  he  took  the  field  to 
face  Turenne.  Another  turn  of  the  kaleidoscope. 
On  one  side  Queen,  Cardinal  (newly  restored  to 
favor),  Parliament,  and  Turenne;  on  the  other, 
Conde,  aided  by  his  sister,  and  the  Dukes  of 
Nemours  and  Beaufort.  The  first  thing  Turenne 
did  was  to  save  the  royal  party  —  Queen,  Cardinal, 
and  little  King  —  from  capture,  by  his  timely  pro- 
tection at  the  bridge  of  Gergeau,  where  a  party  of 
the  enemy  was  coming  down  upon  them.  He  arid 
his  colleague,  D'Hocquincourt,  had  divided  the 
army  into  two  portions,  for  better  ease  of  main- 
tenance, D'Hocquincourt  establishing  himself  at 
Ehenau,  and  Turenne  at  Briare.  But  now  came 
news  that  the  Prince  (the  distinctive  title  of  Conde) 
was  advancing  by  forced  marches,  night  and  day, 
towards  them.  Turenne  went  over  to  D'Hocquin- 
court as  soon  as  he  heard  the  tidings,  to  urge  the  ne- 
cessity of  concentrating  their  forces  to  meet  their 
great  foe.  He  returned  to  make  his  own  prepara- 
tions; but  that  very  night  an  animated  whirlwind 
swept  down  on  the  army  at  Rhenau,  —  a  whirlwind 
whose  fury  of  attack  brooked  no  resistance,  but 
scattered  officers  and  men  like  toy  soldiers. 

Some  fugitives  flew  to  Turenne  with  the  tidings. 
"  The  Prince  has  arrived ! "  said  the  Marshal 


TURENNE.  147 

instantly.  "  It  is  he  who  commands  that  army ;  I 
know  his  attack ! "  and  he  immediately,  says  my 
biographer,  "carried  his  wing  to  the  assistance  of 
his  colleague."  He  found  affairs  in  a  bad  way. 
The  Prince  in  the  midst  of  the  soldiers'  quarters, 
of  which  he  had  already  pillaged  and  burned  five, 
enjoying  himself  immensely;  D'Hocquincourt  shut 
up  in  Khenau,  waiting  to  see  what  would  happen. 
Here  was  a  pleasant  situation  for  Turenne.  If  he 
drew  back,  his  interesting  colleague  would  lay  all 
the  blame  on  him,  and  it  might  also  be  supposed 
that  he  had  a  secret  understanding  with  the  Prince, 
on  whose  side  he  had  so  lately  fought ;  on  the  other 
hand,  he  had  but  four  thousand  men,  against  four- 
teen thousand  of  Conde's.  He  was  counselled  to 
fall  back  on  Gien,  where  the  royal  party  was ;  but 
"No,"  he  said;  "we  must  conquer  or  die  here!" 
And  now,  see  what  a  fine  thing  it  is  to  be  a  mili- 
tary man!  He  took  his  four  thousand  men,  and 
drew  them  up  on  a  level  ground,  resting  his  right 
on  a  wood,  and  his  left  on  a  marsh,  while  his  front 
was  only  approachable  by  a  narrow  footpath  which 
must  be  traversed  in  file.  Now,  you  and  I  would 
not  have  known  enough  to  do  that.  In  this  strong 
position  he  sent  word  to  Gien  that  his  Majesty 
might  sleep  in  peace  that  night.  At  daybreak  the 
Prince,  having  burned  and  pillaged  enough,  came 
to  find  Turenne,  —  found  him,  and  did  not  like  his 
looks  at  all ;  hesitated  so  long  about  attacking  him 
that  the  Marshal,  fearing  the  Prince  might  take  a 


148      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

fancy  to  send  some  troops  round  to  his  rear,  made 
a  feint  of  withdrawing,  leaving  his  guns  in  battery 
to  command  the  narrow  causeway.  Concle,  elated 
with  his  easy  victory  of  the  day  before,  fell  into 
the  trap,  and  rushed  blindly  forward.  The  guns 
opened  fire  with  deadly  effect.  Seeing  his  mis- 
take, he  withdrew  his  troops  for  the  day ;  but  by 
the  next  day  the  fugitive  troops  were  all  collected 
and  drawn  up,  with  other  troops  from  Gien;  and 
Turenne  showed  such  an  imposing  front  that  the 
Prince  took  his  army  off  to  Chatillon,  and  then 
took  himself  off  to  Paris,  where  he  sulked  for  some 
little  time. 

The  court  overwhelmed  Turenne  with  honors 
and  compliments.  The  Queen-Mother  assured  him 
that  he  had  a  second  time  placed  the  crown  on  the 
head  of  her  son;  while  the  unlucky  D'Hocquin- 
court  was  so  violently  berated  that  Turenne,  always 
just  and  generous,  had  to  interfere,  and  beg  pardon 
for  him. 

You  see,  dear  readers,  I  give  you  a  sample  here 
and  there,  from  which  you  must  judge  of  the  web. 
The  side-notes  in  the  biography  read  as  follows: 
"Turenne  skilfully  interposes  the  royal  army 
between  Paris  and  the  rebel  forces."  "Turenne 
routs  Tavannes  [the  Prince's  "Local  Demon"]  at 
Etampes,  May  4th."  "The  Duke  of  York  joins 
Turenne  as  a  volunteer."  That  is  our  amiable 
friend  James  II.  of  England,  of  course.  "The 
Duke  of  Lorraine  compels  Turenne  to  raise  the 


TURENXE.  149 

siege  of  Etampes."  "Matters  are  accommodated 
between  the  Lorraines  and  the  Koyalists  through 
the  intervention  of  Charles  II.  of  England."  This 
is  curious !  The  year  is  1652,  eight  years  before  the 
glorious  Restoration.  It  is  really  quite  edifying 
to  find  Master  Charles  so  well  employed  as  in 
making  peace  between  two  armies;  but  we  know 
what  winning  ways  he  had.  He  took  Jermyn  and 
Rochester  and  Crofts  with  him ;  and  a  blessed  set 
of  peacemakers  they  were  ! 

And  now  we  approach  the  crowning  scene,  per- 
haps, of  the  whole  absurd,  wicked,  unreasonable 
war.  It  may  be  familiar  to  many,  but  it  will  do 
no  harm  to  recall  it  once  more.  The  position  was 
this:  Paris  was  furious  at  the  recall  of  Mazarin, 
and  Conde  thought  he  could  gain  possession  of  the 
city,  popular  sympathy  being  with  him  at  this 
time.  The  Parliament,  however,  refused  to  coun- 
tenance him  or  give  him  money  to  fight  against 
the  King,  even  though  it  was  against  Mazarin  too. 
He  assembled  his  troops  about  Paris.  The  court, 
established  at  St»  Germain's,  sent  in  hot  haste  for 
Turenne.  Turenne  came,  and  also  Marechal  de  la 
Ferte,  each  with  an  army ;  they  joined  forces,  and 
took  up  their  quarters  at  St.  Denis.  Conde  deter- 
mined to  move  his  principal  camp  from  St.  Cloud 
to  Charenton,  where  he  had  recently  prepared 
intrenchments.  On  the  night  of  July  1  he  "broke 
up  his  camp,  and  marched  in  profound  silence  past 
the  walls  of  sleeping  Paris  towards  Charenton. 


150      GLIMPSES  OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

But  though  Paris  slept,  Turenne  did  not;  and  at 
seven  in  the  morning,  Conde,  leading  his  advance 
in  person,  was  suddenly  attacked,  with  a  violence 
worthy  of  his  own  impetuosity,  overcome,  and 
routed,  near  the  bridge  of  St.  Antoine.  He  imme- 
diately, with  consummate  skill,  concentrated  his 
forces,  threw  up  barricades  where  three  streets 
met,  and  prepared  to  defend  himself.  Turenne, 
seeing  the  strength  of  his  position,  wished  to  delay 
further  action  till  La  Ferte  should  bring  up  his 
guns;  but  no  delay  was  to  be  allowed  him.  The 
whole  court  was  waiting  on  tip-toe  to  see  the  fight. 
The  young  King,  now  fifteen  years  old,  was  sta- 
tioned on  the  heights  of  Charonne,  from  which,  as 
in  an  amphitheatre,  he  could  command  the  whole 
scene  of  action.  With  him  was  Cardinal,  Queen  — 
no!  I  am  wrong.  The  Queen  was  on  her  knees 
in  the  chapel  of  the  Carmelites,  awaiting  the  issue 
of  the  combat.  But  the  Cardinal  was  on  the 
heights,  and  all  the  court,  —  princes,  princesses, 
dukes  and  duchesses,  wigs  and  wigesses,  all  thirst- 
ing for  blood  —  to  be  shed  by  proxy.  Wave  the 
green  scarf,  and  down  with  the  yellow  Isabelle! 
On,  M.  de  Turenne!  what  can  you  be  waiting  for  ? 
The  enemy  is  ready,  and  so  are  we.  En  avant! 
Stout  Turenne  obeyed  his  orders.  The  forces  met 
with  equal  fury  of  onset,  and  soon  round  the  gate 
of  St.  Antoine  raged  as  fierce  a  fight  as  wigs  or 
wigesses  could  wish  to  see.  Conde's  soldiers 
wore  wisps  of  straw  in  their  caps;  seeing  which, 


TURENNE.  151 

Turenne  adorned  his  men  with  scraps  of  white 
paper  as  their  distinguishing  badge.  The  brave 
Frenchmen  hacked  and  hewed  and  fired  away  at 
each  other  with  as  good  will  as  if  there  had  really 
been  something  for  them  to  fight  about.  At  noon 
the  heat  became  so  intense  that  they  stopped  to 
rest  and  cool  off,  like  boys  at  a  football  match; 
then  to  it  they  fell  again.  The  two  commanders 
were  here,  there,  everywhere;  the  Prince  espe- 
cially flashed  like  a  baleful  meteor  to  and  fro. 
"  I  did  not  see  one  Prince  of  Conde,  I  saw  a  dozen !  " 
said  Turenne,  in  speaking  of  it  afterwards.  Mean- 
while the  people  of  Paris,  the  respectable  ones,  that 
is,  shut  themselves  up  in  their  houses  to  await 
the  event,  while  the  mob  paraded  the  streets  and 
shouted  "Vive  M.  le  Prince!  a  bas  Mazarin !  "  to 
their  hearts'  content.  Look  into  the  kaleidoscope! 
Queen  praying,  mob  shouting,  King,  Cardinal,  wigs 
and  wigesses,  gazing,  Conds  and  Turenne  fighting. 
But  the  end  seems  to  be  approaching.  The  King's 
soldiers  have  forced  their  way  into  some  of  the 
houses,  thus  turning  the  barricades.  La  Ferte 
has  arrived,  and  his  cannon  are  sweeping  the  Rue 
St.  Antoine.  Breathless,  disheartened,  covered 
with  blood  and  dust,  Conde  is  retreating  into  the 
city,  when  —  what  is  this  ?  what  thunder,  answer- 
ing the  royal  cannon,  shakes  the  solid  earth,  and 
startles  the  combatants  on  both  sides  ?  It  is  the 
cannon  of  the  Bastille!  Roar  upon  roar,  volley 
upon  volley,  the  huge  fortress  pours  out  her  deadly 


152      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

fire  upon  the  troops  of  the  King.  We  know  who 
is  behind  those  guns ;  we  can  see  Mademoiselle  de 
Montpensier,  her  fair  hair  floating,  her  blue  eyes 
flashing,  her  finery  for  once  forgot,  as  she  flings 
loyalty,  prudence,  ambition,  and  everything  else 
to  the  winds,  to  save  her  cousin.  And  now,  cov- 
ered by  that  flashing  thundercloud,  the  gates  open, 
and  out  comes  a  crowd  of  armed  citizens,  who  with 
shouts  and  acclamations  surround  the  soldiers  of 
the  Fronde,  and  protect  their  retreat  into  the  city. 
Clang!  the  gates  close  again.  Brave  Turenne  sees 
his  enemy  disappear  as  if  by  magic;  sees  his  men 
cut  down  and  swept  away  by  the  murderous  fire 
from  the  Bastille ;  is  forced  to  withdraw  in  as  good 
order  as  he  may;  and  the  day  is  lost  and  won. 

More  battles,  but  none  so  thrilling  as  that  of  St. 
Antoine.  Mazarin  dismissed,  Mazarin  recalled; 
death  of  the  Duke  of  Bouillon  (who  seems  to  have 
been  very  weak  broth  indeed).  Turenne  marches 
here,  Conde  establishes  himself  there.  Turenne 
takes  Bar-le-Duc,  and  then  Ligny.  The  campaign 
ends  gloriously,  Bordeaux  submits,  the  Fronde  is 
over.  The  King  grants  a  general  amnesty,  from 
which  Conde  alone  is  excepted,  he  being  con- 
demned to  death,  and  retiring  to  Brussels.  This 
on  Sept.  16,  1653. 

In  1654  Louis  XIV.  was  solemnly  crowned  at 
Rheims,  proceeded  to  take  matters  into  his  own 
hands,  and  reigned  thereafter.  War  continued 
with  Spain  just  now,  Turenne  in  chief  command. 


TL'REXNE.  153 

Our  Marshal  had  found  time  to  be  married,  just 
before  the  last  campaign,  to  Charlotte  Caumont, 
daughter  of  a  Protestant  peer,  the  Due  de  la  Force, 
who  had  somehow  escaped  the  St.  Bartholomew. 
She  is  disposed  of,  in  two  lines,  as  delicate,  modest, 
simple,  and  sweet. 

Behold  the  Spaniards,  with  the  ubiquitous  Conde" 
at  their  head.  Turenne  compels  Conde  to  raise  the 
siege  of  Arras.  Turenne  takes  Landrecies,  takes 
Conde  (the  town,  not  the  Prince).  During  this 
last  siege  it  chanced  that  a  standard  of  the  royal 
regiment  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Prince,  who 
sent  it  to  the  King  "  by  a  trumpet."  His  Majesty, 
however,  refused  to  accept  any  courtesy  at  the 
hands  of  his  rebel  subject,  so  the  regiment  went 
standardless  through  the  campaign.  During  this 
campaign  occurred  an  incident,  slight  in  itself, 
which  divided  the  two  great  leaders  more  than 
a  hundred  pitched  battles  could  have  done.  M.  de 
Castenau,  one  of  Turenne's  officers,  had  suffered 
defeat  by  the  Spaniards.  Turenne,  in  recounting 
the  circumstance  to  the  Cardinal,  said  in  his  letter 
that  Conde  had  been  compelled  to  quit  his  post,  and 
that  some  of  his  men  had  been  obliged  to  swim  the 
Scheldt.  The  letter  was  intercepted,  and  being 
read  by  Conde,  made  him  furious.  He  instantly 
sent  a  trumpeter  to  the  King's  army  with  a  fiery 
letter,  denying  the  action  attributed  to  him,  and 
adding  that  if  Turenne  had  been  at  his  post,  as  he 
had  been  at  his  own,  he  would  have  known  the 


154      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

truth.  The  letter  was  delivered  to  Turenne  in  the 
midst  of  a  large  circle  of  officers;  but  he  contented 
himself  with  telling  the  trumpeter  quietly  that 
if  he  brought  any  more  such  letters  he  should 
be  punished.  The  two  ancient  comrades  never 
resumed  friendly  relations  to  each  other,  and 
there  were  no  more  trumpet  letters  between 
them. 

The  campaign  of  1656  was  marked  by  several 
changes.  Mazarin  concluded  a  treaty  with  Crom- 
well, in  accordance  with  which  Charles  and  James 
Stuart  were  obliged  to  leave  the  kingdom,  and 
quit  the  service  of  the  French  armies.  In  June 
Turenne  laid  siege  to  Valenciennes,  a  very  impor- 
tant post.  You  do  not  want  to  hear  about  the 
siege,  and  you  shall  not:  that  he  was  obliged  to 
raise  it,  leaving  the  advantage  with  Conde,  seems 
to  have  been  entirely  the  fault  of  La  Ferte,  the 
second  in  command  of  the  royal  army, — "this 
vexatious  man,"  my  biographer  calls  him;  and  he 
seems  indeed  to  have  been  specially  qualified  by 
Nature  for  invariably  doing  the  wrong  thing.  The 
siege  raised,  Conde  and  every  one  else  expected 
to  see  the  royal  troops  in  full  retreat.  Turenne 's 
own  officers  looked  for  instant  orders  to  retire 
across  the  frontier;  but  they  reckoned  without 
their  Marshal.  He  saw  that  to  withdraw  his 
army  at  this  perilous  juncture  would  frighten  his 
own  party,  and  unduly  encourage  the  enemy.  He 
even  refused  to  allow  his  army  to  cover  themselves 


TCRENNE.  155 

with  intrencbinents,  but  camped  according  to  rigid 
rules  of  castramentation,  arranged  his  outposts 
with  absolute  regularity,  and  calmly  awaited  the 
next  move  of  his  adversary.  Up  came  the  Prince, 
accompanied  by  Spanish  Don  John  and  many 
troops.  Turenne  went  forth  with  his  best  regi- 
ments to  meet  them,  and  then  defiled  in  perfect 
order  before  them,  until  he  brought  them  within 
sight  of  his  camp.  His  soldiers,  however,  were 
not  so  cool  as  their  leader,  and  began  to  get 
together  the  bagagge,  in  order  to  march  away  at 
sight  of  the  foe.  In  an  instant,  with  a  flash  like 
that  of  Conde  himself,  Turenne  was  among  them, 
pistol  in  hand.  "If  a  man  stirs,"  he  said  simply, 
"  I  blow  his  brains  out !  "  No  one  moved,  and 
order  was  restored.  The  royal  army  stood  like 
a  rock.  Prince  and  Don,  puzzled  at  this  firm  front 
where  they  expected  to  find  a  disorganized  army 
in  full  retreat,  paused,  consulted  together  for  two 
days,  during  which  time  many  of  La  Ferte's  men 
came  back  to  the  ranks,  and  the  slender  force 
of  Turenne  swelled  to  a  very  respectable  body. 
Finally,  Prince  and  Don  deemed  it  expedient  to 
march  away,  and  lay  siege  to  the  town  of  Conde. 
This  was  justly  thought  a  great  stroke  on  the  part  of 
the  Marshal.  "To  act  thus,"  says  Bussy-Rabutin 
in  his  Memoirs,  "  one  must  be  a  master  of  war;  for 
this  is  indeed  a  master-stroke."  And  Le  Tellier, 
Secretary  of  State,  writes :  "  By  your  prudence,  my 
Lord,  and  your  vigorous  action,  you  have  re-estab- 


J56      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

lished  the  reputation  of  the  royal  arms.  Truly 
nothing  could  be  finer  than  your  encamping  near 
Quesnoy  after  the  disaster  of  Valenciennes,  —  your 
making  head  against  most  formidable  enemies,  even 
in  their  own  country,  and  forcing  them  to  retire 
while  still  flushed  with  victory.  This  is  a  stroke 
which  belongs  only  to  the  great  masters  of  the  art 
of  war."  Yes,  great  masters!  such  these  two  men 
were,  playing  their  terrible  game  of  chess  with 
consummate  skill.  Voltaire,  writing  fifty  years 
later,  says:  "Thus  these  two  men,  opposed  to  each 
other,  displayed  the  resource  of  their  genius. 
They  were  admirable  in  their  retreats  as  in  their 
victories,  in  their  good  conduct  and  even  in  their 
errors,  which  they  always  knew  how  to  repair. 
Their  talents,  turn  by  turn,  held  in  check  the 
progress  of  one  and  the  other  kingdom." 

In  1658  came  the  important  siege  of  Dunkirk, 
Cromwell,  in  his  treaty,  having  expressly  stipulated 
that  this  stronghold  should  be  taken,  and  delivered 
to  England.  Alas!  that  time  fails  me  to  give  an 
account  of  the  siege,  which  was  most  interesting. 
Six  weeks  it  lasted,  and  the  city  fell  at  last  before 
the  united  efforts  of  Turenne  and  the  English 
troops.  On  June  24,  Louis  XIV.  entered  Dunkirk 
in  triumph  at  the  head  of  the  English  troops,  to 
whom  he  made  over  the  place  according  to  agree- 
ment. Four  years  later,  as  we  know,  Charles  sold 
the  place  to  Louis,  and  added  another  patch  to  his 
many-colored  garment  of  disgrace. 


TURENNE.  157 

In  1666  Turenne  lost  his  wife,  and  then,  or  soon 
after,  he  joined  the  Catholic  Church.  The  next 
year  came  the  campaign  called  the  Promenade 
JMilitaire,  when  Turenne  and  the  King  took  pos- 
session of  the  greater  part  of  the  Spanish  Nether- 
lands, which  yielded  with  hardly  a  struggle.  Then 
came  the  Triple  Alliance,  the  Treaty  of  Aix-la- 
Chapelle,  and  a  general  peace. 

What  did  Turenne  do  in  time  of  peace  ?  Why, 
he  read  a  good  deal,  we  are  told,  and  attended 
mass  very  regularly;  but  he  disliked  confession 
extremely.  He  returned  to  his  study  of  Caesar 
and  Quintus  Curtius  with  unfeigned  zest,  and 
threatened  on  one  occasion  to  fight  a  man  who 
said  that  the  biographer  of  Alexander  the  Great 
was  a  mere  romancer.  He  never  thought  that  he 
had  sufficiently  studied  the  science  of  war,  and 
plunged  into  history  and  geography  with  the  vigor 
and  enthusiasm  of  youth.  He  read  German  and 
Flemish  easily,  but,  alas!  he  could  not  write 
even  French  correctly;  and  in  this  connection 
gave  Cardinal  de  Retz  the  opportunity  of  saying 
"  that  the  obscurity  of  his  language  was  only  made 
intelligible  by  his  glory."  He  was  not  fond  of 
society,  this  honest  Marshal;  he  liked  study  at 
all  times  better  than  conversation,  and  he  detested 
wits  and  witticisms.  Still,  he  could  make  jokes 
himself,  and  was  of  a  placid,  serene,  even  cheerful 
temper. 

Five  years  of  rest  he  had,  and  when  he  took  the 


158      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

field  again,  at  the  command  of  his  rapacious  master, 
his  method  of  warfare  was  seen  to  be  changed. 
He  was  now  in  his  sixty-third  year,  his  genius 
matured  and  tempered.  He  now,  to  quote  General 
Gust,  "aspired  to  a  higher  practice  of  the  military 
art;  and  his  skill  and  genius,  aided  by  his  expe- 
rience, gave  birth  to  strategy,  which  hereafter 
became  an  institution  of  war."  It  is  from  this 
point  of  view  that  Turenne  is  justly  called  the 
father  of  modern  warfare.  Conde*  Avas  as  brave, 
more  brilliant,  nearly  as  often  successful;  but  he 
had  not  the  brain  of  the  other  man,  and  his  war- 
fare remained  that  of  the  past  generation,  while 
Turenne  advanced  to  lead  on  that  of  the  future. 
I  hardly  venture  to  intrude  any  more  wars  upon 
the  reader's  patience.  We  know  something  of  the 
heroic  resistance  of  the  Dutch,  and  how,  after 
the  murder  of  the  De  Witts,  all  Europe  became 
alarmed  at  the  overweening  pride  of  France,  and 
the  Elector  of  Brandenburg  and  the  other  German 
Princes  crossed  the  Rhine  to  assist  persecuted 
Holland.  It  is  in  the  next  campaign  that  I  find 
an  anecdote  so  characteristic  of  our  hero  that  I 
must  pause  to  give  it  here :  "  The  spring  this  year 
was  exceedingly  backward,  and  the  campaign  was 
carried  on  through  all  the  discomforts  of  a  rigorous 
season.  In  one  of  these  marches  the  Viscount, 
now  sixty-three  years  old,  bivouacked  with  his 
men,  without  any  regard  to  his  age,  and  altogether 
indifferent  to  the  discomfort  of  falling  snow,  with- 


TURENXE.  159 

out  cover.  Down  he  lay  on  the  ground,  and  slept 
like  a  child,  wrapped  in  his  cloak.  His  soldiers, 
however,  less  indifferent  than  he,  could  not  bear 
to  see  their  chief  risking  his  life  in  this  manner; 
and  while  he  slept,  they  built  a  hut  of  boughs 
above  his  head  to  keep  the  snow  off.  While  they 
were  thus  at  work,  their  chief  awoke,  and  wished 
to  know  why  they  were  amusing  themselves  instead 
of  preparing  for  the  march.  '  We  wish,'  said  the 
soldiers,  '  to  take  care  of  our  father ;  for  if  we  lose 
him,  who  will  take  us  back  to  our  own  country  ? ' ' 
Many  anecdotes  are  also  told  of  Turenne's  integ- 
rity and  disinterestedness,  —  qualities  not  too 
common  in  the  soldiers  of  his  time.  One  of  his 
generals  pointed  out  to  him,  in  remote  Westphalia, 
where  they  were  making  war,  an  opportunity  of 
obtaining  a  considerable  prize  for  himself,  of  which 
the  distant  court  would  never  hear.  "I  am  obliged 
to  you,"  replied  the  Viscount;  "I  have  often  found 
similar  occasions,  and  having  never  turned  them 
to  my  own  advantage  before,  I  shall  not  begin  at 
my  age." 

Another  time  one  of  the  great  towns  offered  him 
one  hundred  thousand  crowns  if  he  would  not  bring 
his  army  through  their  streets ;  whereupon  he  sent 
them  word  that  as  their  town  did  not  lie  in  his  line 
of  march,  he  could  not  accept  the  money  they 
offered  him.  It  was  not  Turenne's  fault  that  all 
Europe  rose  against  the  insatiable  greed  and  ambi- 
tion of  his  master,  Louis;  it  was  not  his  fault  that 


160      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

Louvois  hampered  him  by  absurd  directions,  nor 
that  his  own  forces,  enfeebled  by  long  and  hard 
services,  could  not  cope  with  the  springing  armies 
of  Montecuculi  and  William  of  Orange.  The  tide 
liad  turned  against  the  Grand  Monarque,  and 
neither  steadfast  Turenne  nor  fiery  Conde  could 
stem  it. 

It  was  in  July,  1675,  that  our  hero  met  his 
death.  He  and  Montecuculi  had  been  pitted 
against  each  other  for  some  time,  each  striving 
to  out-manceuvre  the  other.  It  was  check  and 
counter-check,  one  skilful  move  after  another; 
but  at  last  Turenne  gained  the  advantage  of  so 
strong  a  position  that  his  skilful  adversary  saw 
his  best  wisdom  in  retreat.  Turenne  was  in  high 
spirits,  foreseeing  a  decided  victory.  "  It  is  done !  " 
he  cried.  "  I  hold  them,  they  cannot  escape  me ;  and 
I  shall  reap  the  fruit  of  this  tedious  campaign." 

He  mounted  his  horse,  and,  with  six  or  eight 
officers  in  attendance,  rode  to  reconnoitre  the 
ground.  It  was  much  broken,  and  difficult  of 
observation.  A  small  battery  of  the  enemy,  at 
a  little  distance,  kept  up  an  incessant  fire;  and 
Turenne,  as  he  rode  along,  repeated  several  times, 
"I  do  not  at  all  wish  to  be  killed  to-day." 

M.  de  St.  Hilaire  rode  up  to  meet  him,  and  as 
they  paused  to  speak,  a  ball,  passing  over  the 
quarters  of  St.  Hilaire's  horse,  carried  away  the 
rider's  left  arm  and  the  horse's  neck,  and  struck 
Turenne  in  the  side.  He  rode  forward  about 


TURENNE.  161 

twenty  paces,  and  fell  dead.  "I  ran  to  my  father," 
says  St.  Hilaire  the  younger  in  his  Memoirs, 
"and  raised  him  up.  '  No  need  to  weep  for  me,' 
he  said;  '  weep  for  the  death  of  that  great  man. 
You  may  perhaps  lose  your  father,  but  neither 
your  country  nor  you  will  ever  see  a  general  like 
that  again.''  Count  Hamilton  threw  a  cloak 
over  the  body,  in  the  hope  of  concealing  from 
the  soldiers  the  knowledge  of  his  death;  but  the 
well-known  piebald  charger,  rushing  riderless  over 
the  field,  told  the  news  only  too  well.  A  great 
and  bitter  cry  arose:  "Our  father,  our  father  is 
dead!  we  are  lost!  Lead  us  to  battle,  that  we  may 
avenge  his  death."  Montecuculi  heard  the  cry, 
and  halted  in  his  march,  uncovering  respectfully. 
"A  man  has  fallen,"  he  said,  "who  did  honor  to 
all  mankind."  And  then,  being  a  soldier,  he  took 
his  advantage,  and  won  the  victory  which  was  to 
have  been  the  dead  man's. 

France  mourned  deeply  over  her  fallen  hero;  the 
court  was  plunged  in  tears.  But  here  I  shall  drop 
my  pen,  and  let  a  far  more  eloquent  one  tell  the 
story  of  mourning. 

Madame  de  Sevigne,  writing  to  her  son-in-law, 
M.  de  Grignan,  on  July  31,  1675,  about  the  sad 
event,  says:  "The  King  has  been  afflicted  in  a 
manner  suitable  to  the  loss  of  the  greatest  general 
and  the  best  man  in  the  world.  The  whole  court 
were  in  tears  at  this  disastrous  news.  M.  de 
Condom  was  near  fainting.  Everything  was 
11 


162      GLIMPSES  OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

ready  for  setting  out  on  a  party  of  pleasure  to 
Fontainebleau,  but  this  immediately  broke  it  off, 
Never  was  man  more  sincerely,  more  universally 
regretted.  All  degrees  of  people  were  in  the 
greatest  consternation  and  trouble.  Every  one 
was  making  inquiries,  and  the  streets  were  filled 
with  those  who  gathered  in  crowds  to  lament  the 
loss  of  their  hero." 

Again,  writing  a  few  days  later,  she  says, — 
"  I  was  the  other  day  at  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld's. 
M.  le  Premier  came  thither,  Madame  de  Laverdin, 
M.  de  Marillac,  and  Madame  de  la  Fayette.  The 
conversation,  which  lasted  two  hours,  turned  wholly 
on  the  divine  qualities  of  this  true  hero.  The  eyes 
of  every  one  were  bathed  in  tears ;  and  you  cannot 
believe  how  deep  the  grief  of  the  loss  of  him  is 
engraven  on  all  their  hearts.  .  .  .  We  remarked 
one  thing,  which  was,  that  not  only  at  his  death 
was  he  admired.  The  largeness  of  his  heart,  the 
vast  extent  of  his  knowledge,  the  elevation  of 
his  mind,  —  all  this  the  world  was  full  of  during 
his  life.  How  much  higher  the  admiration  of 
it  was  made  to  rise  by  his  death  you  may  easily 
imagine.  In  a  word,  my  dear,  do  not  think  that 
the  death  of  this  great  man  is  regarded  here  like 
that  of  others.  As  for  his  soul,  it  is  a  miracle, 
which  can  proceed  from  nothing  but  the  perfect 
esteem  every  one  had  for  him,  that  none  of  the 
devotees  have  yet  taken  it  into  their  heads  to 
doubt  whether  it  be  in  a  good  state.  It  is  not 


TURENNE.  163 

possible  to  comprehend  that  sin  or  guilt  could  find 
a  place  in  his  heart.  His  conversion,  so  sincere, 
appeared  to  me  like  a  baptism.  Every  one  speaks 
of  the  innocence  of  his  manners,  the  purity  of  his 
intentions,  his  humility  free  from  all  manner  of 
affectation,  the  sentiments  of  solid  glory  his  heart 
was  filled  with;  without  haughtiness  or  ostenta- 
tion, loving  virtue  for  its  own  sake,  without  regard- 
ing the  approbation  of  men,  and,  to  crown  all,  a 
generous  and  Christian  charity.  Did  I  not  tell 
you  of  the  regiment  that  he  clothed  ?  It  cost  him 
fourteen  thousand  francs,  and  left  him  almost  with- 
out money.  The  English  told  M.  de  Lorgne  that 
they  would  continue  to  serve  this  campaign  to 
revenge  his  death;  but  that  after  this  they  would 
retire,  not  being  able  to  serve  under  any  other 
general  after  M.  de  Turenne.  When  some  of  the 
new  troops  grew  a  little  impatient  in  the  morasses, 
where  they  were  almost  up  to  their  knees  in  water, 
the  old  soldiers  animated  them  in  this  manner: 
'  What  is  it  you  complain  of  ?  It  is  plain  you  do 
not  yet  know  M.  de  Turenne.  He  is  more  grieved 
than  we  ourselves  are  when  we  are  in  any  difficulty ; 
he  is  thinking  of  nothing  at  this  moment  but  of 
removing  us  hence.  He  wakes  while  we  sleep ;  he 
is  a  father  to  us :  it  is  easy  to  see  that  you  are  but 
young  soldiers.'  Thus  they  encouraged  them.  I 
return  to  the  state  of  his  soul.  It  is  really  a 
remarkable  thing  that  no  zealot  has  yet  thought 
fit  to  make  a  doubt  whether  it  has  pleased  God  to 


164       GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

receive  with  open  arms  one  of  the  best  and  noblest 
souls  He  has  created.  Reflect  a  little  upon  the 
general  assurance  of  his  salvation,  and  you  will 
find  it  is  a  kind  of  miracle  scarcely  ever  known  but 
in  his  case.  In  a  word,  no  one  has  yet  presumed 
to  doubt  of  his  everlasting  rest." 


A  CORSAIR   OF   FRANCE. 

WE  know  more  or  less  —  perhaps  a  good  deal  — 
about  the  mariners  of  England.  We  know,  in  a 
general  way,  that  they  sweep  through  the  deep, 
while  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  We  know  some- 
thing of  Drake,  and  a  little  of  Blake,  and  the  name, 
at  least,  ever-delightful,  of  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel. 
But  what  do  we  know  about  the  mariners  of 
France  ? 

That  Richelieu  practically  founded  the  modern 
French  navy,  that  Mazarin  suffered  it  almost  to 
die  of  neglect,  and  that  Colbert  restored  it,  —  is 
not  this  about  the  sum  of  what  many  of  us  know  ? 
Admitting  such  to  be  the  case,  my  readers  will  also 
admit  that  it  is  high  time  we  knew  something  more ; 
and  I  hope,  briefly,  to  throw  a  little  light  on  these 
hitherto  dark  and  unexplored  waters. 

We  will  begin,  if  you  please,  with  the  Crusades. 
In  the  earlier  Crusades  the  long  journey  to  the 
Holy  Sepulchre  was  made  by  land;  but  later  on, 
t'ne  efflux  of  people,  growing  greater  and  greater, 
led  to  a  gradual  development  of  the  maritime 
power  of  the  countries  bordering  the  Mediterra- 
nean. "The  Italians  [I  quote  from  Mr.  Norman's 
interesting  work,  "The  Corsairs  of  France,"  which 


166       GLIMPSES  OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

forms  the  groundwork  of  all  I  have  to  say],  the 
Italians  were  the  first  to  profit  by  this.  Venice 
shortly  monopolized  the  trade  of  the  East,  and 
other  cities,  such  as  Genoa  and  Pisa,  entered  into 
rivalry  with  her.  It  was  in  ships  belonging  to 
these  republics  that  Philip  Augustus  (1189)  trans- 
ported his  crusaders  to  Palestine.  Louis  IX.  made 
strenuous  efforts  to  convey  his  own  contingent  in 
his  own  vessels,  and  a  goodly  number  of  craft  were 
hired  from  the  merchants  of  Provence  and  Lan- 
guedoc ;  but  he  too  was  obliged  to  have  recourse  to 
the  ports  of  Italy.  To  Louis  IX.,  however,  is  due 
the  birth  of  the  French  navy;  for  under  him 
De  Varenne  was  created  First  Admiral  of  France. 
The  Crusades  over,  French  merchants,  whose  ships 
had  visited  Eastern  ports,  determined  on  sharing 
with  Venice  and  Genoa  the  risks  and  profits  of 
Oriental  trade,  and  Marseilles  soon  became  one  of 
the  principal  ports  of  the  Mediterranean. 

"  Under  Philippe  le  Bel  commenced  the  long,  long 
story  of  the  struggle  for  naval  supremacy  between 
France  and  England.  There  were,  however,  no 
King's  ships  at  the  King's  command,  and  the 
sovereign  was  compelled  to  turn  to  his  shipowners 
and  merchants  for  assistance.  St.  Malo,  Eouen, 
Caen,  Honfleur,  Havre,  Dieppe,  Etretat,  Cher- 
bourg, and  Dunkirk  each  furnished  a  contingent, 
and  the  admirals  of  Brittany  and  Normandy  (for 
each  province  had  its  own  admiral)  lowered  their 
flags  in  homage  to  the  Admiral  of  France,  who, 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  167 

by  the   King's   order,   assumed   command  of  the 
whole." 

Under  Charles  V.  the  French  fleet  had  grown 
strong  enough  to  gain  a  brilliant  victory  over  the 
English  off  Rochelle ;  and  his  successor,  Charles  VI., 
could  summon  thirteen  hundred  vessels  of  all  sizes 
and  all  nationalities  to  sail,  under  the  white  flag  of 
France,  for  a  descent  upon  the  English  shore.  This 
was  in  1386,  when  Richard  II.  was  making  his 
poor  miserable  attempt  to  reign  in  England;  and 
the  descent  was  to  be  a  very  great  thing,  and  to 
annihilate  perfidious  Albion.  Oliver  de  Clissou 
had  built  a  whole  wooden  town,  which  was  to  be 
transported  to  England  in  pieces,  for  all  the  world 
like  Johnny's  toy  village,  and  then  set  up  "in  such 
sort,"  says  Froissart,  "that  the  lords  might  lodge 
therein,  and  retire  at  night  so  as  to  be  in  safety 
from  sudden  awakening,  and  sleep  in  greater 
security."  (Why  is  it  that  there  is,  almost  inva- 
riably, this  element  of  the  comic  in  the  doings  of 
the  French?  Celtic  blood,  I  suppose!)  Great  care 
was  also  taken  to  supply  the  lords  with  food,  lest 
peradventure  sterile  Albion  should  produce  none. 
And  then  consider  the  length  of  the  voyage! 
"Whoever  had  been  at  that  time  at  Bruges,  or 
the  Dam,  or  the  Sluts,  would  have  seen  how  ships 
and  vessels  were  being  laden  by  torchlight  with 
hay  in  casks,  biscuits  in  casks,  onions,  peas,  beans, 
barley,  oats,  candles,  gaiters,  shoes,  boots,  spurs, 
iron,  nails,  culinary  utensils,  and  all  things  that 


168       GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

can  be  used  for  the  service  of  men."  And  all  these 
things  were  paid  for  at  very  high  prices,  because 
the  Dutch,  being  thrifty,  said  that  if  they  were  not 
paid  what  they  asked  in  cash,  they  would  take 
their  ships  home  and  play  neutral.  The  magnifi- 
cence of  it  all,  too!  "On  the  masts  was  nothing 
to  be  seen  but  painting  and  gilding;  everything 
was  emblazoned  and  covered  with  armorial  bear- 
ings "  (such  an  invaluable  assistance,  you  will 
understand,  for  a  sea-fight!).  "But  nothing  came 
up  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy's  ship.  It  was  painted 
all  over  outside  with  blue  and  gold,  and  there  were 
five  huge  banners,  with  the  arms  of  Burgundy  and 
the  countships  of  Flanders,  Artois,  Bethel,  and 
Burgundy,  and  everywhere  the  Duke's  motto,  'I 
drive!'" 

The  young  King  was  eager  to  set  off;  and  there 
was  as  much  glorification  as  on  the  night  before 
Agincourt.  But  they  had  to  wait  three  months  for 
the  King's  uncle,  the  Due  de  Berry,  who  was  in 
no  such  hurry  to  go  to  England;  and  when  they 
finally  did  start,  the  stormy  winds  did  blow,  and 
blew  them  straight  back  where  they  came  from. 
Master  Charles,  deeply  disgusted,  went  back  to 
Paris,  leaving  some  men-of-war  to  unload  the  fleet, 
and  bestow  it  in  a  place  of  safety  as  soon  as  might 
be.  But  they  were  saved  all  this  trouble ;  for  the 
English,  for  whom  the  wind  was  exactly  right, 
came  over,  and  burned  or  took  in  tow  most  of  the 
ships,  and  carried  off  all  the  provisions,  onions, 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  169 

candles,  gaiters,  spurs,  town  and  all,  besides  two 
thousand  casks  of  wine,  which  kept  perfidious 
Albion  warm  and  merry  all  winter. 

Truly,  it  seems  idle  to  doubt  that  "there's  a 
sweet  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft,"  to  keep  the 
shores  of  the  "  right  little,  tight  little  island  "  clear 
of  invaders.  Since  the  days  of  the 

*'  Very  great  war- man 
Called  Billy  the  Norman," 

has  any  invasion  of  England  prospered  ?  Many 
have  threatened,  from  the  Invincible  Armada  to 
the  time  when  the  terror  of  "  Bony  "  hung  for  years 
like  a  black  cloud  over  English  soil;  but  I  can  call 
to  mind  none  that  has  succeeded.  To  return  to 
our  ships. 

One  reign  and  another  passed  by,  and  still  France 
had  no  navy  of  her  own.  Louis  XII.  built  one 
large  ship-of-war,  the  "Charente;"  Duchess  Anne 
of  Brittany  launched  a  monster  named  "La  Belle 
Cordeliere,"  and  Francis  I.  a  large  two-decked  ship, 
the  "Caraquon."  But  one  was  sunk  by  an  Eng- 
lish squadron  as  soon  as  she  put  out  of  port,  and 
the  other  was  burned  at  her  moorings  in  Havre.. 
Francis,  warlike  and  wide-awake,  began  to  take 
notice  of  the  state  of  affairs.  To  meet  the  gallant 
ships  of  England  and  Holland,  he  must  have  some- 
thing else  besides  the  small  merchant  vessels  of 
Normandy  and  Brittany.  In  short,  he  must  have 
a  navy,  —  a  number  of  powerful  armed  vessels. 


170      GLLVPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

Again,  in  order  to  have  these,  he  must  have  ports  for 
them  to  come  and  go  from.  He  found  that  with  a 
seaboard  of  many  thousand  miles,  he  had  no  ports 
to  speak  of,  —  no  ports,  that  is,  to  admit  vessels 
of  any  considerable  draught.  He  occupied  himself 
with  the  improvement  of  Havre,  and  from  a  mere 
fishing  village  made  it  a  stately  town,  with  towers 
and  basins  and  everything  that  a  harbor  town 
might  want.  Not  content  with  this,  he  next  gave 
his  attention  to  the  Mediterranean,  collected  a  fleet 
there,  and  for  the  first  time  in  history  a  French 
squadron,  passing  through  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar, 
defeated  an  English  fleet  off  Brest,  and  then,  mov- 
ing round  to  the  eastward,  drove  off  the  blockading 
squadron  of  Henry  VIII.  from  Boulogne.  Unfor- 
tunately, the  successors  of  Francis  made  no  effort 
to  carry  out  his  views  as  to  the  necessity  of  a 
powerful  navy.  His  ships  lay  and  rotted  quietly 
at  their  moorings,  and  no  new  ones  took  their 
places,  —  "  in  fact,  during  the  sixty  years  that 
elapsed  between  his  death  and  the  accession  of 
Louis  XIII.,  the  navy  of  France  may  be  said  to 
have  ceased  to  exist."  Then  came  a  man  with 
eyes  in  his  head  and  a  brain  behind  them,  —  came 
Richelieu,  like  a  strong  keen  wind,  thrilling  through 
all  the  waste  places,  searching  out  every  weak  spot 
in  the  body  politic. 

Richelieu,  in  1626,  wishing  to  close  Rochelle  to 
the  English,  demanded  ships.  Behold,  there  were 
no  ships !  and  his  Eminence  was  compelled  to  hire 


A    CORSAIR   OF   FRANCE.  171 

twenty  vessels  from  the  Dutch.  This  fact  made 
a  profound  impression  upon  him;  and  he  at  once 
threw  all  his  energies  and  all  his  abilities  into  the 
grave  question  of  making  a  navy.  First,  he  per- 
suaded the  King  to  abolish  the  useless  sinecure  of 
a  High  Admiral  of  France,  and  to  appoint  him,  the 
Cardinal,  Grand  Master  of  the  Navy,  and  Super- 
intendent-General of  Navigation  and  Commerce. 
Next,  he  insisted  on  a  certain  annual  sum  being 
set  apart  in  the  budget  for  the  construction  of 
ships-of-war,  and  the  purchase  of  material  to  keep 
those  already  existent  in  proper  repair.  This 
done,  he  raged  like  a  whirlwind  along  the  sea- 
board of  France ;  built  ships,  built  galleys,  opened 
the  harbors  of  Brest  and  Toulon,  and  established 
maritime  arsenals.  Up  to  this  time,  be  it  said, 
the  few  vessels  which  belonged  to  the  King  were 
paid  off  at  the  end  of  a  war,  the  captain  of  each 
one  still  remaining  responsible  for  her  being  kept 
fit  for  commission.  Having  no  funds  for  the 
purpose,  it  can  readily  be  imagined  that  by  the 
majority  of  captains  this  duty  was  very  negli- 
gently performed,  if  performed  at  all;  and  it 
almost  invariably  happened  that  when  a  vessel 
was  brought  forward  for  re-commission,  she  was 
found  to  be  in  such  a  condition  that  much  time  and 
money  must  be  spent  before  she  was  fit  for  sea. 
Havre,  Brest,  Brouage,  and  Toulon  were  the  ports 
selected  as  the  first  arsenals  of  France,  and  all 
ships-of-war  were  paid  off  at  one  of  these  places, 


172      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

the  official  in  command  being  held  responsible  not 
only  for  the  stores  within  the  arsenal  walls,  but 
for  the  condition  of  the  ships  lying  in  harbor. 

All  this  good  work  was  not  slow  in  bearing  fruit. 
At  the  death  of  Louis  XIII.,  the  French  flag  flew 
in  every  sea.  The  mercantile  marine,  as  well  as 
the  navy,  had  been  successfully  fostered  by  the 
great  statesman,  and  France  possessed  naval  sta- 
tions in  the  West  Indies,  in  Florida,  Canada,  on 
the  west  coast ,  of  Africa,  and  in  Madagascar. 

Unhappily  Richelieu  died,  and  Mazarin  let  navy 
and  marine  go  to  pieces  as  fast  as  they  would.  In 
the  Fronde  days,  when  some  ships  were  wanted, 
only  eight,  and  three  convict  galleys,  were  available 
for  service.  "Here  we  go  up,  up,  up,"  you  per- 
ceive, "and  here  we  go  down,  down,  downy."  But 
this  decadence  was  not  for  long.  Colbert  came, 
with  his  great  maxim,  "  Commerce  is  the  source  of 
wealth,  and  wealth  the  nerves  of  war."  Colbert 
rose,  and  navy  and  marine  were  raised  once  more. 
"Under  his  fostering  care  the  two  great  trading 
companies,  the  French  East  India  and  West  India 
Companies,  sprang  into  existence  and  rose  to  wealth. 
In  order  to  foster  these  enterprises,  which  he  fore- 
saw would  bring  the  riches  of  the  unknown  world 
to  the  markets  of  France,  Colbert  promised  liberal 
advantages  to  the  importers  of  merchandise,  and 
escorts  for  the  merchant  fleets  in  time  of  war. 
These  escorts  necessitated  a  vast  increase  of  the 
navy.  Colbert  at  once  set  to  work  to  resuscitate 


A   CORSAIR  OF  FRANCE.  173 

the  dying  glories  of  Richelieu's  policy.  Ship- 
builders were  engaged  from  England  and  Holland, 
cargoes  of  wood  brought  from  Norway  and  Russia. 
The  arsenals  of  Brest  and  Toulon  rang  with  the 
music  of  thousands  of  hammers,  and  every  nerve 
was  strained  to  raise  France  to  the  position  of  a 
first-class  maritime  power." 

It  was  not  very  long  before  France  had  two 
hundred  large  ships  on  her  navy  list,  and,  thanks 
to  Colbert's  "Maritime  Inscription,"  could  call  at 
any  moment  fifty  thousand  hardy  sailors  into  ser- 
vice. A  brief  word  about  this  Maritime  Inscrip- 
tion, by  means  of  which  the  great  minister  utilized 
the  service  of  the  seafaring  population  of  the 
whole  coast-line.  To  fishermen,  merchantmen, 
boatmen,  he  said,  "Your  life  is  one  of  peril,  your 
calling  is  one  which,  more  than  any  other,  brings 
you  face  to  face  with  death;  and  in  no  other  pro- 
fessions have  the  families  of  the  bread-winners 
more  frequent  need  of  charitable  help  than  yours. 
Every  year  the  storms  which  sweep  our  coasts 
leave  your  wives  desolate,  and  your  children  father- 
less. You  shall  have  the  protection  of  the  State ; 
but  in  return  you  shall  hold  your  services  at  the 
command  of  the  State  when  it  has  need  of  you. 
Your  own  calling  will  be  little  interfered  with, 
for  the  time  when  your  Sovereign  has  need  of  you 
will  be  just  the  time  when  you  will  be  unable  to 
pursue  your  own  avocations  in  peace ;  and  in  return 
for  these  services  the  State  will  give  you  a  pension 


174      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

when  you  are  no  longer  able  to  work,  and  at  your 
death  it  will  support  your  families,  and  provide 
employment  for  your  sons."  Thus  all  men  and 
boys  employed  in  any  sort  of  navigation  were 
enrolled  in  the  Maritime  Inscription,  were  insured 
protection  and  a  pension,  and  were  forbidden  to 
serve  on  ships  flying  a  foreign  flag,  or  on  a  ship 
carrying  letters  of  marque  without  the  special 
permission  of  the  naval  commandant  at  the  port 
of  register. 

But  the  Maritime  Inscription  was  not  enough 
to  make  France  as  powerful  on  the  seas  as  she 
wished  to  become;  and  side  by  side  with  the 
regular  navy  sprang  up  the  corsairs,  —  "  ships  fitted 
out  by  private  enterprise  to  reinforce  the  fleets 
of  the  State,  and  to  undertake  duties  which  the 
King's  ships  were  not  numerous  enough  to  per- 
form." These  vessels  carried  letters  of  marque, 
were  heavily  armed,  and  manned  by  bold  and  expe- 
rienced sailors.  Their  principal  object  was  to 
pursue  and  capture  the  merchant-vessels  which, 
laden  with  commodities  more  or  less  precious,  were 
constantly  sailing  from  one  port  or  another. 

Very  often  the  merchants  made  common  cause, 
and  would  set  sail  together,  half-a-dozen  or  more 
vessels,  under  convoy  of  a  man-of-war;  but  even 
in  this  case  it  was  no  uncommon  thing  for  a 
corsair  to  swoop  down  on  the  convoy,  and  carry 
off  part  of  it  under  the  very  nose  of  the  war-ship. 

The  success  of  these  corsairs  was  unparalleled. 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  175 

Scouring  the  seas  with  swift,  light  vessels,  they 
came  and  went  like  meteors,  carrying  desolation 
in  their  path.  In  the  year  1689  alone,  the  cor- 
sairs of  France  captured  forty -two  hundred  English 
and  Dutch  craft;  and  in  Dunkirk  alone,  during 
forty  years  of  war,  forty-three  hundred  and  forty- 
four  prizes  were  sold  by  the  admiralty  courts  for 
the  sum  of  £6,327,000,  and  thirty- four  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  prisoners  detained  for 
various  terms  in  the  town. 

Of  one  of  these  corsairs,  a  son  of  Dunkirk,  Jean 
Bart  by  name,  I  propose  to  give  a  brief  sketch. 
This  hero  was  born  in  1650,  and,  one  may  say, 
was  born  a  corsair,  his  father  having  been  eminent 
in  the  profession,  and  his  maternal  grandfather 
being  no  other  than  Michel  Jacobson,  the  famous 
Sea-Fox,  most  renowned  of  all  that  sailed  those 
waters.  Thus,  with  the  wild  blood  rioting  in  his 
veins,  little  Jean  grew  up  a  sturdy  and  venture- 
some youngster.  He  was  but  eight  years  old  when 
the  allied  French  and  English  armies  besieged 
Dunkirk;  and  the  little  lad  ran  about  amid  the 
roar  and  smoke  of  the  bombardment,  and  took  to 
himself  the  cannon-balls  for  playthings  when  they 
had  done  their  work,  and  thought  a  bombardment 
a  glorious  thing,  with  plenty  of  first-class  noise. 
Xot  a  whit  was  he  daunted  when  his  father 
received  a  wound  which  ended  his  fighting  days ; 
for  then  the  old  corsair  sat  in  his  room,  looking 
out  over  the  sea,  and  told  stories  all  day  long  of 


176      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

chase  and  capture  and  hairbreadth  escape.  The 
best  story  of  all  was  that  of  the  death  of  the  Sea- 
Fox.  His  vessel  had  been  crippled  by  the  fire  of 
a  whole  Dutch  squadron,  and  after  a  desperate 
struggle  had  been  boarded  by  the  enemy.  The 
Dutchman  "found  the  crew,  mon  gar$on,  all  dead 
or  wounded,  flat,  you  observe,  like  this  crutch, 
on  the  deck.  But  thy  grandfather,  do  they  find 
him?  A-a-ah!  [with  a  back-handed  shake  of  the 
forefinger],  believe  it  not!  Where  is  he?  Search 
then,  rny  little  Dutchman,  in  the  rigging,  in  the 
cabin,  que  diable!  Search  always,  my  little  ones; 
forward  then !  But  —  "A  long  and  dramatic  pause. 
"Approach  thou,  Jean  Bart,  grandson  of  a  hero! 
Regard,  under  this  table:  it  is  the  hold  of  the 
vessel.  What  is  this  that  creeps,  creeps,  silent  as 
the  night,  among  the  powder-casks?  Hush!  look! 
His  sword  in  his  right  hand,  —  the  corsair  dies  not 
without  it,  —  in  his  left,  what?  A  torch,  that 
flames,  that  hisses,  that  flickers.  C'est  le  Renard  ! 
it  is  the  Fox !  The  vessel  may  be  taken,  —  it  is 
a  thing  of  wood;  but  he,  never!  He  is  a  good 
Catholic,  observe:  he  confessed  but  the  night 
before.  He  is  absolved;  Mary  awaits  him  with  a 
crown  of  glory.  He  prays :  it  is  enough.  A  smile 
upon  his  lips,  he  applies  the  fire  to  the  powder: 
eric!  cracf  bourn!  The  affair  is  finished.  Ship, 
Dutchmen,  dead  and  wounded,  where  are  they? 
Glory,  my  son,  glory  alone  remains.  Thus  dies 
a  corsair  of  France." 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  177 

Is  it  wonderful  that  with  such  instructions  the 
little  Jean  determined  to  be  a  corsair,  and  to  rival 
the  deeds  of  father  and  grandfather  ?  His  mother, 
it  is  true,  wept,  prayed,  implored  against  it.  Ah, 
these  poor  mothers !  When  did  one  whom  the  sea 
claimed  as  her  own  ever  pay  heed  to  them  ?  In 
his  twelfth  year  Jean  Bart  embarked  as  ship's  boy 
on  a  Dunkirk  smuggler,  commanded  by  a  well- 
known  corsair,  Jerome  Valbue.  This  man,  though 
a  thorough  seaman  and  a  brave  commander,  seems 
to  have  been  primarily  a  brute;  and  though  he 
was  a  friend  of  Cornil  Bart,  still  matters  might 
have  gone  hardly  with  the  boy,  had  it  not  been 
for  Antoine  Sauret,  his  father's  old  boatswain, 
who  shipped  with  the  boy  for  pure  love,  and  not 
only  shielded  him  from  the  brutality  of  the 
skipper,  but  taught  him  all  the  mysteries  of  sea- 
craft.  Like  the  "Pinafore's"  captain,  he  could 
"hand,  reef,  and  steer,  and  ship  a  salvagee;" 
and  before  his  four  years'  apprenticeship  was 
over,  he  was  counted  the  smartest  lad  in  all 
Dunkirk,  and  had  won  Colbert's  prize  for  marks- 
manship in  the  annual  artillery  competition  on 
the  Downs. 

Passing  from  boyhood  to  youth,  Jean,  while  still 
a  lad,  was  in  1666  appointed  mate  of  a  crack  brig- 
antine,  the  "Cochon  Gras,"  with  Valbue  over  him 
as  captain.  He  anticipated  much  pleasure  from 
this  cruise;  but  it  was  brought  to  an  abrupt  close. 
The  incident  which  caused  the  rupture  between 

12 


178      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

Bart  and  his  captain  is  so  characteristic  of  the 
time  and  the  man  that  I  cannot  forbear  quoting 
it  in  full  from  Mr.  Norman's  work.  It  shows  at 
once  the  religious  intolerance  of  the  day,  and  the 
need,  which  Colbert  pointed  out,  of  limiting  and 
defining  the  powers  of  a  corsair  captain. 

"In  this  very  year  [1666]  Colbert,  in  submitting 
to  Louis  XIV.  the  list  of  ships-of-war  ready  to 
be  used  against  England,  took  the  opportunity  of 
pointing  out  to  the  Grand  Monarch  the  necessity 
for  drawing  up  a  code  of  laws  which  should  put 
an  end  to  existing  abuses.  There  was  at  this  time 
a  perpetual  conflict  between  the  captains  of  ships- 
of-war  lying  in  harbor,  and  the  admiralty  officials 
commanding  on  shore.  At  sea  the  captain  was  an 
absolute  autocrat,  the  judge  of  all  matters,  arbiter 
of  life  and  death,  and  dispenser  of  an  irregular 
code  which  was  revolting  in  the  cruelty  of  its 
edicts,  and  which,  dating  from  the  days  of  Eichard 
Co3ur  de  Lion,  embraced  a  series  of  antiquated  laws, 
then  known  under  the  title  of  the  Judgments  of 
Oleron.  The  old  Mosaic  doctrine,  'An  eye  for  an 
eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,'  was  the  basis  of  this 
code.  Thus,  if  a  man  drew  a  knife  on  another,  he 
was  pinned  to  the  mast  by  a  knife  through  the 
offending  hand;  if  he  wounded  a  messmate  in  the 
arm,  his  own  arm  paid  the  forfeit;  if  he  committed 
murder,  he  was  tied  to  the  corpse  of  the  murdered 
man,  and  cast  into  the  sea.  There  was  a  charming 
simplicity  about  the  Judgments  of  Oleron,  which 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  179 

rendered  the  study  of  naval  law  easy  enough,  and 
enabled  the  masters  of  ships  to  maintain  discipline 
among  the  most  refractory  crew;  and  in  the  days 
when  master  and  seamen  in  many  crafts  lived  in 
terms  of  the  most  perfect  equality,  and  ate  and 
drank  and  played  together,  perhaps  summary 
justice  was  necessary. 

"On  board  the  'Cochon  Gras '  there  sailed 
a  Huguenot  seaman,  Martin  Lanoix  by  name. 
Although  a  brave  man,  and  second  to  no  man  on 
board  in  sailor-like  qualities,  his  religion  drew 
down  upon  him  the  scoffing  of  his  messmates 
and  the  most  brutal  pleasantries  of  his  captain. 
Of  all  the  crew  Jean  Bart  and  Sauret  were  the 
only  members  who  showed  the  Huguenot  sym- 
pathy, or  who  treated  him  as  a  messmate.  One 
afternoon  Valbue,  more  than  half-seas  over,  had 
been  recounting  to  his  open-mouthed  crew  the 
miraculous  aid  offered  to  a  sinking  Breton  fisher- 
boat  by  a  bishop,  who  appeared  walking  on  the 
water,  and,  quietly  stepping  over  the  side,  infused 
fresh  life  and  vigor  into  the  worn-out  crew,  and 
who,  with  more  than  superhuman  power,  remained 
at  the  pumps  until  the  craft  was  safe  in  harbor. 
Having  finished  his  tale,  Valbue  took  the  oppor- 
tunity to  level  some  injurious  epithets  at  his 
Huguenot  seaman,  finishing  up  his  abuse  by  hurling 
a  half-empty  tin  drinking-can  at  Lanoix's  head. 

"  The  Huguenot,  with  provoking  calmness,  wiped 
the  dripping  cider  from  his  face  and  beard,  and 


180      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

replied,  'Master,  the  Judgments  of  Oleron  lay 
down  that  the  captain  should  be  moderate  in  his 
language,  and  just  in  his  dealings  to  his  crew,  if 
you  please.' 

"Exasperated  at  the  tone  of  Lanoix's  reply, 
Valbue  advanced  upon  him  with  uplifted  hand  and 
threatening  words.  The  Huguenot,  falling  back, 
in  the  same  provoking  tone  continued,  'The  Judg- 
ments of  Oleron,  which  bind  you  as  well  as  me,  lay 
down  that  the  captain  is  not  to  punish  the  sailor 
until  his  anger  has  cooled  down.' 

"  'What!  '  shouted  the  enraged  Valbue,  'you, 
who  blaspheme  the  Blessed  Virgin,  dare  to  quote 
the  law  to  me?  Take  that!  '  and  lifting  high  a 
capstan-bar  which  lay  on  the  open  hatch,  he  aimed 
a  blow  at  Lanoix's  head,  which,  grazing  the  face, 
fell  full  on  the  sailor's  shoulder. 

"  Sauret,  the  eldest  member  of  the  crew,  rose,  and 
wished  to  interpose;  but  Valbue",  turning  on  him, 
threatened  to  strike  him  also;  and  the  old  salt? 
knowing  the  absolute  authority  of  the  captain, 
wisely  held  his  peace. 

"'Captain,'  said  Lauoix,  'I  have  now  received 
your  first  blow,  as  the  law  enjoins;  but  now,' 
lightly  jumping  over  the  iron  rail  which  ran  across 
the  fore  part  of  the  ship,  and  which  marked  the 
quarters  of  the  crew,  'now,  if  you  strike  me,  you 
exceed  your  rights,  and  I  can  resume  mine,  for  I 
have  passed  the  chain.' 

"  '  Comment !  '   shrieked  Valbue,  beside  himself 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  181 

with  rage,  'you,  Huguenot,  over-weighted  with 
the  load  of  never-to-be-forgiven  sins,  you,  whose 
blasphemies  have  placed  you  forever  beyond  the 
law,  you  dare  to  talk  to  me  of  laws  ?  Dog  of  a 
heretic,  wait,  just  wait  a  moment,  and  I  will  show 
you  what  laws  are  applicable  to  swine,  to  Jews, 
and  to  Huguenots.'  Then,  seeing  Lanoix  still 
stood  on  his  guard  behind  the  chain,  Valbue  sprang 
forward,  and  struck  him  two  violent  blows  in  the 
face.  In  an  instant  the  knife  of  the  Huguenot 
flashed  in  the  air,  and  descended  on  the  captain's 
right  arm.  The  gleam  of  the  steel  was  seen  by 
the  crew;  and  though  disgusted  at  their  captain's 
brutality,  the  sense  of  discipline  was  strong  within 
them,  and  rushing  forward  to  Valbue's  aid,  Lanoix 
was  borne  down  and  pinioned  in  a  trice,  but  not 
before,  turning  on  the  first  man  who  approached 
him  (the  coward  Valbue  stood  hounding  on  his 
crew),  he  had  stabbed  him  to  the  heart. 

"Pale,  and  trembling  with  fright  and  anger, 
Valbue  turned  to  the  cabin-boy,  saying,  'Go  into  my 
cabin;  there  in  a  box  on  the  locker  you  will  see  a 
book  bound  in  white  parchment.  Bring  it  to  me.' 

"  The  boy  disappeared,  returning  again  in  a  few 
moments  with  the  book,  whose  fatal  decrees  all 
knew  so  well.  Jean  Bart,  who  had  been  at  the 
tiller  whilst  this  scene  was  being  enacted,  stood 
motionless.  Anon  his  eye  would  be  thrown  on  the 
compass  to  see  that  the  craft  still  held  her  course, 
and  then  with  grim  determination  cast  on  the  group 


182      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

at  the  break  of  the  forecastle.  A  glance  of  intel- 
ligence passed  between  him  and  Sauret,  who,  walk- 
ing aft,  sat  on  the  weather-rail  by  Jean  Bart's 
side.  The  significance  of  the  movement  was  not 
lost  upon  Valbue,  who,  turning  round,  shouted,  in 
tones  of  ill-suppressed  anger,  'You  know  how  to 
read,  Sauret;  read  this,'  at  the  same  time  holding 
towards  the  scarred  and  weather-beaten  salt  the 
little-used  volume. 

"'I  will  not  read  it,'  replied  Sauret. 

'"Then  I  will  do  so  myself,'  said  Valbue. 

"'Valbue,'  interrupted  Sauret,  'you  are  not  act- 
ing according  to  law.  That  unfortunate, '  pointing 
to  Lanoix,  who,  bruised  and  bleeding,  lay  bound 
on  the  deck,  'should  be  allowed  three  meals  at 
which  he  may  acknowledge  his  fault,  — nay,  more, 
he  should  be  permitted  the  oaths  on  bread,  on 
wine,  and  on  salt,  that  he  may  swear  to  respect 
your  authority  in  the  future.' 

"'Silence!'  thundered  Valbue;  'his  blasphemies 
deprive  him  of  all  right  of  purging  his  offence. 
The  chain  of  refuge,  the  oaths  of  excuse,  the  meals 
of  repentance,  are  not  for  dogs  like  him.  It  is  not 
I  who  judge  him,  it  is  the  law;  I  am  merely  the 
accuser.  Listen !  I,  Maitre  Valbue,  swear  by  the 
Holy  Apostles  that  what  I  read  is  the  law :  "  The 
sailor  who  strikes  or  raises  his  hand  against  his 
captain  will  be  fastened  to  the  mast  by  means  of 
a  sharp  knife,  and  compelled  to  withdraw  his  hand 
in  such  a  manner  that  one-half  at  least  of  the 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  183 

erring  hand  shall  remain  affixed  to  the  mast."  ' 
Then,  half -closing  the  book,  Valbue  said,  'Accord- 
ing to  the  Judgments  of  Oleron,  any  sailor  blas- 
pheming the  Pope  shall  have  his  tongue  pierced 
by  a  hot  iron.  Lanoix  had  so  blasphemed  our 
Holy  Father,  and  it  was  my  intention  to  have 
carried  out  the  letter  of  the  law  for  the  offence; 
and  in  attempting  to  arrest  him  he  drew  his  knife 
upon  me,  —  me,  his  captain,  —  and  wounded  me  in 
the  arm.  Now,  each  man  answer  in  his  turn! 
Did  Martin  Lanoix  blaspheme  the  name  of  his 
Holiness,  and,  furthermore,  did  he  strike  his  cap- 
tain ? '  Then,  rolling  up  his  coat-sleeve,  Valbue, 
holding  up  his  arm,  displayed  a  flesh  wound,  fresh 
and  bleeding,  in  his  right  arm.  'Answer,'  shouted 
Valbue,  'Yes,  or  no! ' 

"  The  crew  grouped  round  the  captain  murmured 
'Oui;'  but  from  the  stern  of  the  ship,  in  old 
Sauret's  well-known  voice,  came  the  words,  'Cap- 
tain, you  had  passed  the  chain,  and  —  ' 

"  Stamping  his  foot  on  the  deck,  Valbue  cried, 
'That  is  no  answer  to  my  question,  son  of  a  dog. 
Did  Martin  Lanoix  inflict  this  wound  on  me,  or 
not?' 

"'But  — '  interposed  Sauret. 

" '  Was  it  Martin  Lanoix  ?  Yes,  or  no ! '  shrieked 
Valbue. 

"'Very  well,  — No! '  responded  Sauret. 

'"No! '  chimed  in  Jean  Bart. 

"Valbue,  trembling  with  rage,  said,  'Six  of  the 


184      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

crew  affirm  that  Martin  Lanoix  did  wound  his 
captain;  two  of  the  crew  say  he  did  not:  the 
majority  are  right.  Boy,  fetch  my  cutlass.' 

"  And  the  boy,  diving  below,  reappeared,  with  a 
long,  straight  Spanish  sword,  the  edge  as  keen  as 
a  Sikh  trooper's  tulwar. 

"  Stooping  forward,  Valbua  lashed  it  to  the  wind- 
lass, edge  uppermost;  and  then,  directing  the  crew 
to  raise  Lanoix,  he  lashed  the  prisoner's  arm  to 
the  trenchant  blade. 

"'Martin  Lanoix,  withdraw  your  arm,  as  the  law 
directs ! ' 

"The  Huguenot  hesitated.  Then  the  brutal 
Valbue,  seizing  the  helpless  prisoner  by  the  throat, 
dashed  him  backwards;  and  as  he  fell,  the  sword, 
severing  flesh  and  muscle,  laid  the  quivering  arm 
bare  from  wrist  to  elbow. 

"'Unlash  the  prisoner !'  continued  Valbue ;  and, 
faint  with  loss  of  blood,  Lanoix  sank  bleeding  on 
the  deck.  'Bring  aft  the  body  of  Simon  Lai-ret!' 
said  the  captain,  moving  to  the  stern  of  the  vessel, 
where  Sauret  and  Jean  Bart  remained  mute  spec- 
tators of  the  direful  scene.  Two  men,  carrying 
the  corpse,  laid  it  at  the  feet  of  the  still  senseless 
Lanoix. 

'"I  swear  by  the  Holy  Apostles  that  what  I  read 
is  true,'  continued  Valbue,  once  more  opening  the 
book.  '"If  any  sailor  kills  a  messmate,  or  so 
wounds  him  that  he  dies  from  the  effect  of  the 
wound,  the  living  man  shall  be  lashed  to  the  dead, 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  185 

and  both  shall  be  cast  into  the  sea.  If  the  murder 
takes  place  on  shore,  the  murderer  shall  be  executed 
as  the  law  provides." 

"'Yes,  or  no:  did  Martin  Lanoix  kill  Simon 
Larret?  '  interrogated  Valbue. 

"'Yes,'  answered  the  six,  as  before. 

"'Xo,'  replied  Sauret  and  Jean  Bart. 

"  'Six  recognize  the  murder;  two  refuse  to  do  so : 
the  majority  are  in  the  right.  Carry  out  the  law ! ' 
and  Martin  Lanoix,  victim  to  the  ungovernable 
hatred  of  a  brutal  captain,  still  living,  though 
bound  and  helpless,  was  lashed  to  the  yet  warm 
corpse,  and  cast  into  the  sea. 

"That  evening  the  'Cochon  Gras'  entered  Calais, 
and  Sauret  and  his  young  master  bade  farewell 
forever  to  the  brutal  skipper,  whose  inhuman 
conduct,  however,  bore  good  fruit.  In  accordance 
with  the  laws,  Valbue  reported  the  occurrence  to 
the  Intendant  at  Calais;  and  this  official,  the 
Sieur  de  Imfreville,  penned  an  able  memorandum 
ou  the  inequalities  of  naval  laws.  This  memo- 
randum was  submitted  by  Colbert  to  Louis  XIV., 
with  a  scheme  for  the  codification  of  the  existing 
laws;  and  so  from  the  murder  of  the  poor  Huguenot 
sprang  the  present  Code  Maritime  of  France." 

We  may  hope,  though  we  are  not  told  so,  that 
Valbue  received  some  sort  of  punishment  for  his 
crimes.  Jean  Bart,  however,  was  to  be  speedily 
rewarded  for  the  gallant  part  he  had  played.  The 


186      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

Intendant,  well  pleased  with  what  he  heard  of  the 
youth,  sent  for  him  a  few  days  after,  and  offered 
him  the  honorable  but  dangerous  task  of  putting 
some  French  cavaliers  on  board  De  Ruyter's  fleet, 
then  blockading  the  English  in  the  Thames.  Bart 
sprang  at  the  chance;  and  as  the  sun  went  down, 
he  slipped  out  of  Calais  harbor  in  a  good  half- 
decked  boat,  the  faithful  Sauret  and  two  Calais 
boatmen  as  his  crew,  while  in  the  stern-sheets 
cowered  the  Marquis  d'Harcourt  and  the  Counts 
de  Coislen  and  de  Cavoye,  gallant  gentlemen,  at 
home  in  the  saddle  and  the  open  field,  but  unused 
to  midnight  cruises  in  an  open  boat.  The  night 
was  cool  and  keen,  and  the  boat  danced  merrily 
over  the  heaving  waves,  to  the  intense  discomfort 
of  the  passengers;  but  little  thought  Jean  Bart  of 
their  petty  land-lubber  miseries.  He  was  going 
to  see  an  Admiral,  — a  real  live  Admiral!  the  most 
glorious  thing  on  earth,  next  to  the  Archangel 
St.  Michael  himself.  A  King,  or  an  Intendant  of 
Marine,  might  be  very  well  in  his  way;  but  an 
Admiral!  As  for  these  unhappy  silken  apologies, 
in  their  laces  and  satin  cloaks  and  curling  wigs, 
Jean  Bart  was  really  sorry  for  them.  To  be  such 
objects  of  pity  must  be  indeed  sad.  As  for  him, 
he  was  in  the  seventh  heaven,  for  an  idea  had 
struck  him.  The  glorious  Admiral  would  per- 
haps be  glad  to  know  the  exact  position  of  the 
enemy.  It  was  known  that  Monk  was  only  wait- 
ing a  favorable  wind  to  come  out  of  the  Thames 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  187 

and  try  his  fate.  Why  should  not  he,  Jean  Bart, 
go  and  have  a  look  at  the  enemy,  and  report  to  the 
Admiral  what  he  saw  ?  Already  the  white  cliffs 
of  Albion  were  in  sight.  A  whispered  consulta- 
tion with  Sauret,  gray,  faithful  old  sea-dog,  a 
few  quick  orders  to  the  men,  and  his  boat  was  flying 
up  the  Thames  on  a  flood  tide,  with  a  breeze  fair 
from  the  southeast.  By  midday  (the  wretched 
noblemen  always  curled  up  in  the  stern-sheets, 
too  sick  to  move,  and  with  no  idea  of  what  was 
going  on)  he  found  himself  within  easy  view  of 
Monk's  fleet,  counted  the  vessels,  noted  their  posi- 
tion, and  then  dropped  back  with  the  ebb,  bore  off 
past  Southend,  round  the  Essex  coast,  and  ran  up 
to  the  Dutch  fleet  at  8  A.  M.  the  following  morning. 
Rocking  under  the  lee  of  the  lofty  flag-ship,  the 
"  Seven  Provinces,"  the  captain  roused  his  unhappy 
passengers  with  a  cheery  "At  last,  Messieurs,  be- 
hold us!"  Cramped  with  long  lying  curled  up, 
drenched  with  the  water  the  little  vessel  had 
shipped  in  bucketfuls,  their  ruffles  draggled,  their 
wigs  frightfully  out  of  curl,  the  poor  Marquis  and 
the  two  suffering  Counts  made  their  way  up  the  side 
of  the  great  vessel,  and  presented  themselves  before 
the  Admiral.  After  them  sprang  an  active  figure, 
lithe  and  graceful  as  a  wild  creature,  trim  and  neat 
in  his  sailor's  rig,  with  glowing  eyes,  and  cheeks  of 
ruddy  brown.  Jean  Bart  also  made  his  salute;  and 
then,  overcome  by  the  awful  majesty  of  the  all-but- 
divine  being  before  him,  the  Admiral  himself,  ia 


188      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

the  flesh,  he  dropped  on  his  knees,  and  stammered 
out  broken  words  of  homage  and  devotion. 

De  Ruyter  was  delighted  with  the  information 
brought  by  the  young  Triton,  and  at  his  earnest 
request  took  both  him  and  old  Sauret  on  board 
the  "Seven  Provinces"  as  able  seamen.  So  that 
by  one  of  the  curious  chances  of  that  changing 
time,  the  future  corsair,  whose  proudest  victories 
were  to  be  won  over  the  ships  of  Holland,  saw  his 
first  five  years  of  warfare  fighting  under  Dutch 
colors,  and  was  ready  to  die  at  any  moment  for 
the  Dutch  Admiral. 

Bravely  he  served  during  these  five  years,  which 
were  years  of  education  and  practice  invaluable 
to  the  future  commander.  But  he  was  first  of  all 
a  Frenchman;  and  when,  in  1672,  France  declared 
war  against  Holland,  he  refused  all  offers  of  pro- 
motion in  the  Dutch  service,  and  returned  to  take 
his  station  under  the  white  flag  of  France. 

Early  in  1674  Jean  Bart  received  command  of 
his  first  vessel,  the  "King  David,"  a  coasting- 
lugger  carrying  two  guns  and  a  crew  of  thirty-six 
men,  —  not  a  very  formidable  craft,  one  would 
think;  yet  his  first  prize,  a  Dutch  brigantine,  was 
taken  within  a  week.  This  was  in  March.  In 
April  he  took  a  Dutch  brig  mounting  ten  guns; 
in  May  two  prizes  were  his;  in  June  two  more. 
Briefly,  in  the  first  year  he  captured  ten  vessels, 
large  and  small.  People  in  Dunkirk  began  to  toss 
their  heads,  and  say,  "  Yes,  Jean  Bart !  He  is  of 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  189 

our  city.  We  knew  him  when  he  was  a  little  one 
so  high.  He  is  of  the  true  blood,  and  will  soon 
rival  his  grandfather,  the  Sea-Fox.  Dunkirk  is 
the  home  of  the  true  corsairs."  Also  the  pretty 
maidens  began  to  open  their  eyes,  and  to  think  that 
Jean  Bart  was  not  only  bravest  of  the  brave,  but 
uncommonly  handsome.  Plenty  of  people  were 
always  on  the  quay  when  the  "King  David"  came 
gayly  into  port,  with  a  captive  vessel  towing 
behind.  One  put  on  one's  best  cap,  and  the  gold 
beads  which  grandmother  was  always  glad  to  lend, 
and  the  long  gold  earrings.  But  foremost  on  the 
quay  was  always  old  sea-dog  Sauret,  now  too  old 
for  service,  but  living  in  the  exploits  of  his  young 
master.  If  you  wanted  to  know  more  about  the 
young  corsair,  here  was  the  man  to  ask.  If  he 
had  had  a  glass  of  wine  at  the  cabaret  as  he  came 
along,  or  possibly  two,  you  would  hear  wonderful 
things;  and  it  would  be  clear  to  any  reasonable 
mortal  that  Jean  Bart,  single-handed,,  had  beaten 
off  Monk's  fleet  on  the  6th  of  August,  and  had 
sunk  and  burned  the  English  ships  in  the  Thames. 
Among  the  bright  eyes  that  watched  on  the  pier 
for  the  young  corsair's  return  was  one  pair  that 
seemed  to  him  brighter  than  all  the  rest.  A  fair 
child  of  sixteen  won  the  young  man's  heart;  and 
he  remembered  that  his  father  and  grandfather 
had  both  married  young,  and  that  a  true  sailor 
should  never  be  without  a  sweetheart.  He  was 
married,  and  actually  stayed  on  shore  four  months 


190      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

with  his  sweet  little  bride.  A  gallant  couple  they 
must  have  made!  Do  you  want  to  know,  my 
reader,  what  our  Jean  looked  like  ?  You  have 
a  fixed  idea  of  a  corsair  in  your  mind,  I  know,  as 
I  have.  You  know  at  just  what  page  to  open  your 
Byron,  and  read,  — 

"  That  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery, 
Scarce  seen  to  smile,  and  seldom  heard  to  sigh, 
Whose  name  appals  the  fiercest  of  his  crew, 
And  tints  each  swarthy  cheek  with  sallower  hue." 

And  so  on.  I  always  thought  Medora  must  have 
had  a  wretched  time  with  her  blackavised  adorer. 

But  in  picturing  to  yourself  our  lad  of  Dunkirk, 
you  are  to  imagine  no  such  gloomy  desperado. 
The  portrait  of  him  that  I  have  seen  shows  a 
frank,  open  countenance:  a  broad  brow,  with 
dark  hair  curling  round  it;  a  firm  mouth,  which 
looks,  however,  as  if  it  could  laugh  merrily  enough ; 
and  a  pair  of  eyes  so  keen,  so  brilliant,  and  so 
kindly  that  they  seem  fairly  to  dance  in  the  pic- 
ture; a  bronzed  cheek,  in  which  the  hot  Breton 
blood  mantles  readily;  a  curling  moustache;  a 
figure  spare  and  sinewy,  yet  graceful  and  well- 
proportioned, —  thus  Jean  Bart  stands  before  us. 
eternally  young  and  blithe,  though  it  is  two  hun- 
dred years  since  he  set  hand  to  earthly  helm. 

To  sea  again,  now  in  "La  Koyale,"  a  smart 
brigantine  carrying  ten  guns,  —  little  Madame 
waving  her  blue  handkerchief,  and  crying  on  the 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  191 

pier,  but  drying  her  eyes  to  think  with  pride 
unspeakable  of  the  greatness  and  glory  of  her 
Jean,  her  own,  and  the  pride  of  Dunkirk  and 
the  world. 

Now  he  takes  the  Dutch  ship  "Anne  of  Ham- 
burg," and  finds  her  full  of  gold-dust  and  elephant 
tusks,  and  all  manner  of  good  things,  —  a  prize, 
this,  worth  having,  and  outweighing  a  whole  fleet 
of  fishing-smacks.  However,  even  fishing-smacks 
are  not  to  be  despised.  So,  when  he  finds  two  more 
Dutch  ships  convoying  a  fleet  of  fifteen  smacks  into 
harbor,  why,  he  falls  upon  them  with  right  good 
will,  and  captures  all  seventeen  of  them.  (N.  B. 
He  allowed  four  of  the  fisher-captains  to  ransom 
their  craft,  and  thereby  got  himself  into  hot 
water,  such  action  being  contrary  to  rules;  but, 
as  he  said,  if  he  had  tried  to  bring  seventeen  ves- 
sels back  to  Dunkirk,  he  would  very  likely  have  lost 
them  all  before  he  got  there.)  But  greater  things 
were  in  store  for  the  young  privateersman.  The 
desire  of  his  heart  had  always  been  some  day  to 
command  a  frigate;  and  a  frigate  was  now  given 
him, — the  " Palme,"  mounting  twenty-four  guns, 
with  a  crew  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  men.  Ah, 
this  was  worth  waiting  for!  If  Grandpapa  Renard 
could  have  seen  this!  And  now,  the  first  heart's 
desire  being  accomplished,  the  second  came  as  a 
corollary  to  it,  —  to  capture  a  man-of-war.  "  If 
thou  canst  do  this,  Jean  Bart,  thou  art  sure  of  a 
name  that  will  last  forever."  Patience  a  little, 


192      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

though,   my  captain!    there   is  other   work   to  be 
done  first. 

Cruising  about,  two  days  out  of  Dunkirk,  he 
fell  in  with  two  other  French  corsairs,  and  joined 
company  with  them.  A  fortunate  meeting  it 
proved;  for  soon  after,  several  sail  were  descried  in 
that  deeply  mysterious  and  melodramatic  locality, 
"the  offing."  On  nearer  approach  these  proved  to 
be  a  squadron  of  eight  armed  whalers,  escorted  by 
three  corsairs,  one  of  the  latter  flying  the  Dutch 
colors,  the  other  two  the  flag  of  Burgundy.  Bart 
and  his  consorts  instantly  bore  down  upon  them, 
and  a  severe  fight  ensued,  during  which  the  Dutch 
corsairs  fought  gallantly  to  defend  the  convoy 
with  which  they  had  been  intrusted.  After  three 
hours,  however,  Jean  Bart  succeeded  in  boarding 
the  "Tertoole,"  the  principal  vessel;  and  after  a 
sharp  hand-to-hand  combat,  her  captain  surren- 
dered, and  the  white  flag  was  run  up  above  the 
tricolor  of  Holland.  Seeing  this,  the  other  two 
hostile  corsairs  made  off,  abandoning  the  whale- 
ships,  which  Bart  and  his  companions  found  an 
easy  prey.  Here  was  a  rich  prize  to  take  back  to 
Dunkirk.  Yes,  very  well,  very  well;  but  the 
desire  of  one's  heart  is  not  yet  fulfilled.  Again? 
patience,  my  Captain!  the  time  is  at  hand.  On 
the  7th  of  September  in  this  year  (1676),  the 
"  Palme  "  was  once  more  standing  out  to  sea,  hav- 
ing just  taken  another  prize  into  Dunkirk,  —  a  fat 
Dutch  smack  this  time,  laden  with  knitted  goods 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  193 

from  England.  The  little  Dutch  boys  would  have 
no  mittens  or  comforters  from  that  consignment. 
All  are  on  the  alert;  all,  from  captain  to  cabin- 
boy,  are  wishing  and  hoping  for  the  same  thing. 
Suddenly  the  lookout  cries,  "  Sail  ho ! "  (or  what- 
ever "sail  ho!"  is  in  seventeenth-century  French). 
"  Where  away?  "  is  the  time-honored  reply.  "  Dead 
ahead,  M.  le  Capitaine !  "  A  fleet  of  fishing-smacks, 
and  convoying  them,  —  0  Honor!  O  Glory!  a  man- 
of-war!  At  last!  Make  ready  everything,  alow 
and  aloft!  Load  the  pistols,  look  to  the  cutlasses, 
train  up  the  guns  in  the  way  they  should  go. 

Crowding  on  all  sail,  Jean  Bart  proudly  sweeps 
into  the  midst  of  the  convoy.  Bang!  A  shot  fired 
across  the  enemy's  bows  summons  her  to  heave  to 
and  submit  to  be  searched;  and  at  the  same  instant 
the  white  flag  of  France  is  run  up  to  the  mainmast 
of  the  frigate.  By  way  of  reply,  the  strange  man- 
of-war  displays  the  Dutch  colors,  and  salutes  with 
a  broadside  that  whistles  through  the  sails  and 
rigging  of  the  "Palme,"  and  warns  her  captain 
that  he  has  no  child's  play  in  hand  this  time. 
Yes,  Jean  Bart,  thou  hast  met  thy  match  at  last. 
This  ship  is  the  gallant  "Neptune,"  carrying 
thirty-two  guns,  her  commander,  Liemard  Cuiper, 
as  brave  and  determined  a  sailor  as  any  that  sailed 
under  the  brave  Dutch  flag.  Nothing  daunted, 
Jean  Bart  fires  his  own  broadside.  Again  and 
again  the  "Neptune"  replies.  Like  two  sea-mon- 
sters, the  vessels  lie  there,  belching  out  smoke  and 

13 


194      GLIMPSES   OF   THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

flame.  On  this  side  and  on  that  crashes  the  round- 
shot.  It  is  an  artillery  duel,  —  roar,  crash,  smash, 
roar  again;  so  on  for  three  hours  and  a  half. 
Always  the  Frenchman  is  manoeuvring  to  bring 
his  vessel  alongside  the  enemy,  that  he  may  carry 
her  by  boarding.  Always  the  wily  Dutchman 
answers  him  by  a  counter-move  that  checks  him. 
Jean  Bart's  clear  brow  darkens;  he  has  had  enough 
of  this.  "Fire  high!"  he  bids  his  men.  They 
comply;  and  the  guns  cease  to  batter  the  enemy's 
hull,  while  aloft  the  balls  go  singing  and  scream- 
ing. "Crash!"  what  is  that?  The  "Neptune's" 
mainmast  is  cut  through.  It  falls  with  its  tower 
of  canvas,  a  vast  mass  of  ruin.  The  vessel,  refus- 
ing to  answer  the  helm,  falls  away.  Now,  Jean 
Bart,  3'our  hour  is  come !  Instantly  he  is  up  on 
the  Dutchman's  weather  quarter;  his  rigging  is 
full  of  men,  and  as  the  vessels  come  together  they 
lash  their  own  fore-rigging  to  the  after-shrouds  of 
the  Dutchman. 

Jean  Bart,  cutlass  in  hand,  leaps  into  the  rigging 
with  one  hundred  and  twenty  Dunkirk  lads  at 
his  back.  They  spring,  rush,  scramble,  like  wild- 
cats aboard  the  fated  Dutchman.  Cuiper,  badly 
wounded,  rallies  his  men  bravely  for  all  that;  sets 
his  back  against  the  mast,  like  the  gallant  Hol- 
lander he  is,  and  prepares  to  die,  sword  in  hand. 
But  his  men  are  weary;  three  hours'  cannonading 
has  damped  their  ardor.  The  decks  are  slippery 
with  blood,  and  heaped  with  the  bodies  of  dead 


A   CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  195 

and  dying  comrades.  So  when  at  last  brave  Cuiper 
falls,  they  yield,  those  who  are  left.  The  hacking 
and  butchering  cease.  Again  the  white  flag  flut- 
ters up,  up,  above  the  conquered  tricolor.  Again 
Jean  Bart  stands  victor  on  the  deck  of  his  prize. 

This  time  the  Dunkirk  people  nearly  went  mad 
over  their  hero.  The  bells  rang,  the  bonfires  blazed, 
the  people  sang,  danced,  shouted,  and  screamed  for 
joy  and  pride.  Think  of  the  scene  of  his  return! 
—  the  gray  old  pier  thronged,  choked,  with  folk 
in  holiday  attire.  In  spite  of  the  throng,  however, 
French  courtesy  and  delicacy  have  left  a  little 
vacant  space  around  three  figures  which  stand  at 
the  very  water's  edge,  gazing  at  the  approaching 
vessels  with  eyes  half-blinded  by  joyful  tears,  — 
two  women,  leaning  close  on  each  other,  one 
young  and  fair  as  a  summer  morning;  the  other 
white-haired  and  wrinkled,  but  still  erect  and  dig- 
nified, as  befits  the  daughter  of  the  Sea-Fox.  And 
behind  them,  bent  almost  double  over  his  stick, 
an  old  fellow  with  a  face  like  a  walnut,  tooth- 
less, crippled,  but  the  happiest  man,  he  thinks,  in 
France  this  day.  "Aha,  mon  brave. f  ah,  the  gal- 
lant little  child!  Old  Sauret  is  here  to  receive 
thee,  my  little  one.  Holy  Virgin,  he  is  there !  I 
cannot  see  him  yet,  but  I  feel  him;  he  is  in  the 
air.  Vive  Jean  Bart!  vive  le  corsairef"  So  mut- 
ters and  chuckles  the  old  man,  whose  ninety  years 
seem  to  him  to  have  passed  solely  that  they  might 
lead  to  this  supreme  moment.  At  last!  at  last 


196      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

they  round  the  pier;  they  are  here.  The  stately 
"Palme,"  all  decked  with  bunting,  fluttering  from 
stern  to  stem  with  streamers  and  pennons,  towed 
behind  her  the  "Neptune,"  shattered  and  crippled, 
showing  in  pierced  hull  and  splintered  masts  how 
brave  a  fight  she  has  made.  Still  further  astern, 
the  fleet  of  fishing-vessels  which  this  conquered 
sea  god  had  sworn  to  protect.  But  who  is  this 
who  stands  cap  in  hand  on  the  prow  of  the  vic- 
torious vessel  ?  He  waves  the  red  cap.  It  is  he! 
it  is  our  Jean!  Shout,  ye  people!  wave  in  return 
caps,  handkerchiefs,  crutches,  stools,  everything 
that  can  be  caught  up  and  waved.  "Houra  !  "  (the 
English  have  taught  them  that  gallant  cry,  and 
they  are  proud  of  their  knowledge)  "  Vive  Jean 
Bart!  vive  le  corsaire!  vive  la  France!"  and  I 
do  believe  that  if  the  Grand  Monarque  himself 
in  all  his  glory  had  come  through  Dunkirk  town 
at  that  moment,  there  would  not  have  been  so 
much  as  a  head  turned  to  look  at  him. 

The  Magnificent,  however,  heard  of  this  exploit, 
news  of  which  overflowed  from  Dunkirk,  and  spread 
all  over  the  country;  and  Magnificence  was  highly 
delighted,  and  sent  through  Minister  Colbert  a  fine 
gold  chain  to  the  successful  privateersman  as  a 
special  token  of  royal  favor.  Do  you  think  Jean 
Bart  wore  the  chain  himself?  Ah,  no;  there  was 
a  grand  dance,  most  likely,  the  very  next  night, 
in  honor  of  the  hero;  and  if  that  chain  did  not 
adorn  the  whitest  and  prettiest  neck  in  Dunkirk, 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  197 

then  I  know  nothing  of  the  nature  of  a  French 
privateersman. 

Well,  what  next  ?  After  all,  one  sea-fight  is 
not  unlike  another,  and  our  story  is  almost  one 
unbroken  line  of  conquests.  The  name  of  Jean 
Bart  was  as  a  fire,  striking  terror  to  the  hearts 
of  all  traders  and  merchantmen.  At  sight  of  his 
sail,  those  who  were  not  heavily  armed  hauled 
down  their  flags  without  more  ado,  and  submitted 
to  the  inevitable.  When  the  more  powerful  ones 
attempted  resistance,  it  really  made  very  little 
difference.  A  cloud  of  canvas  bore  the  swift  black 
hull  down  upon  them  like  lightning.  Crash  went 
the  corsair  into  their  side ;  and  at  the  instant  the 
boarders  swarmed  over  the  bulwarks,  armed  to  the 
teeth,  their  captain  always  at  their  head.  There 
was  no  resisting  the  fury  of  his  onset.  Briefly,  he 
was  a  sea-Conde,  and  there  was  no  Turenne  to  set 
against  him. 

For  a  long  time  Colbert  had  had  his  eyes  upon 
the  corsair  of  Dunkirk,  and  had  determined  to 
enlist  him  in  the  regular  service,  if  possible;  but 
bitter  opposition  was  made  by  the  curled  and 
perfumed  officers  of  the  navy  to  the  admission  of  a 
real  sailor,  tarry  and  weatherbeaten,  into  the  ranks. 
It  was  not  till  1679  that  Jean  Bart  received  his 
commission  as  lieutenant  in  the  French  navy.  He 
was  now  no  more  a  corsair,  the  free  child  of  sea 
and  sky,  but  a  King's  man,  under  orders,  with 
officers  over  him  whose  whole  mental  and  bodily 


198      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

outfit  was  not  worth  his  little  finger.  It  was 
honorable,  of  course ;  it  was  promotion,  in  a  way : 
but  it  must  have  been  very  tiresome.  He  Avho 
could  command  so  well,  however,  knew  also  how 
to  submit.  He  had  but  to  wait,  if  it  were  true 
that  merit  rose  steadily  in  these  ranks.  So  pres- 
ently he  was  sent  with  two  small  ships  to  chase 
the  Barbary  pirates,  the  terror  of  all  the  southern 
seas ;  and  he  gave  them  such  a  whipping  that  for 
years  afterwards  the  French  flag  was  not  meddled 
with  in  the  Mediterranean. 

In  1689  came  trouble  with  England  again;  and 
when  the  two  smartest  frigates  in  Dunkirk  harbor 
were  sent  out  to  sweep  the  Channel,  and  settle 
matters  in  true  corsair  fashion,  with  the  meteor 
flag  of  England,  who  but  Jean  Bart  was  in  charge 
of  them?  He  was  commander  now,  to  the  rage 
and  chagrin  of  many  a  court  sailor.  Many  things 
are  possible  when  real  danger  threatens;  and 
Seignelay,  Colbert's  son,  was  now  Minister  of 
Marine.  The  "Railleuse"  and  the  "Serpente," 
carrying  respectively  twenty-four  and  sixteen 
guns,  gallant  vessels  both,  were  fitted  out  by 
Seignelay  and  Louvois  themselves.  Now,  Jean 
Bart  had  never  fought  an  Englishman  yet.  Dutch- 
men by  the  score,  Moors,  Spaniards,  all  manner  of 
people,  but  never  yet  had  he  fired  upon  the  English 
flag, —  if  we  except  that  time  in  his  early  youth 
when  he  fought  under  De  Euyter  in  the  "Seven 
Provinces." 


A   CORSAIR  OF  FRANCE.  199 

So  he  met  and  fought  his  first  Briton,  after  a 
tremendous  combat  with  a  Hollander.  It  was 
really  a  fine  battle !  I  should  truly  enjoy  describ- 
ing it,  if  I  had  not  already  described  the  combat 
with  the  "Neptune."  But,  as  I  said  before,  one 
sea-fight  is  very  like  another;  and  Jean  beat  the 
English  as  he  had  beaten  the  Dutch,  and  hauled 
down  the  meteor  flag,  and  ruffled  it  about  the  deck 
of  the  "Hollow  Oak"  in  a  manner  which  must 
have  been  very  trying  to  the  Mariners  of  England. 

It  might  have  been  in  this  engagement  that  Jean's 
son  received  what  Louis  Napoleon  would  call  his 
"baptism  of  fire."  He  was  only  fourteen,  poor 
lad!  It  was  his  first  battle.  Perhaps  he  had  more 
of  his  gentle  mother  in  him  than  of  his  sea-born 
father.  However  it  came  about,  it  chanced  that 
Papa  Jean,  whirling,  meteor-like,  hither  and 
thither,  cutlass  in  hand,  glanced  at  the  boy,  to  see 
how  he  was  enjoying  himself.  Alas!  he  was  very 
white;  he  was  trembling  visibly.  The  man  who 
had  just  fallen  at  his  feet  was  bleeding  horribly. 
He  was  stunned  by  the  roar  of  the  great  guns,  the 
crash  of  the  balls,  the  shouts  and  shrieks  and  oaths. 
He  wished  — 

"  Sacre  bleu  !  "  cries  Papa  Jean,  at  sight  of  the 
white  face.  "Thou  art  afraid!  thou!  Hola, 
there!  Bring  me  a  rope  you,  on  the  instant!" 

With  his  own  hands  he  lashes  the  poor  laddie  to 
the  mast,  stands  over  him,  glowering,  pistol  in 
one  hand,  red-dripping  sword  in  the  other.  "  Seest 


200      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

them,  my  child,  thou  art  to  love  this  music,  not  to 
shrink  from  it.  Hark!  eric!  cracf  Is  it  beautiful? 
Listen  to  it,  sing  to  it;  amuse  thyself  till  I  come 
again ! " 

And  the  boy  actually  stood  there,  uninjured, 
through  the  engagement;  but  I  do  not  know 
whether  he  sang  or  not.  He  learned  his  lesson, 
however;  for  in  after  years  Jean  Bart  had  no  reason 
to  blush  for  his  gallant  boy. 

I  cannot  tell  you  about  the  great  fight  of  June  28, 
1694,  when  our  hero,  though  immensely  outnum- 
bered, recaptured  from  the  Dutch  a  convoy  of  sixty 
French  merchantmen  laden  with  grain,  which  they 
had  taken.  It  was  a  very  great  fight,  I  must  ask 
you  to  believe;  and  the  winning  of  it  was  thought 
to  have  preserved  the  kingdom  from  famine,  for 
this  grain  was  to  feed  the  hungry  French  millions. 
So  great  was  the  joy  over  the  victory  that  Louis 
XIV.  caused  a  medal  to  be  struck  in  commemora- 
tion of  it,  and  gave  one  to  every  officer  who  had 
taken  part  in  the  engagement.  One  of  these 
medals,  preserved  in  the  museum  of  Dunkirk, 
shows  on  one  side  the  effigy  of  the  Grand  Mo- 
narque,  with  the  words,  "Ludovicus  Magnus,  Rex 
Christissimus; "  on  the  other,  the  Goddess  Ceres 
standing  on  the  seashore,  with  outstretched  hands, 
holding  ears  of  corn,  and  welcoming  an  approach- 
ing vessel,  the  inscription  reading,  "Annone 
augusta:  Fugatis  unt  Captis  Bat :  nev.  MDCXCIX." 
In  addition  to  this  very  rare  distinction,  Louis  gave 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  201 

Jean  Bart  the  order  of  St.  Louis  and  a  patent  of 
nobility,  and  £2,000  a  year;  and  made  his  son, 
young  Cornil,  who  had  learned  effectively  to  love 
the  music  his  father  made,  an  ensign  in  the  navy. 

One  more  picture,  and  I  have  done.  I  want  you, 
my  readers,  to  see  our  Jean  at  court;  for  he  is  a 
gentleman  now,  and  can  go  to  court  as  well  as  any 
one.  Call  up  once  more  to  your  minds,  if  you  are 
not  too  weary  of  it,  the  familiar  scene  of  Versailles, 
in  these  later  days  of  the  famous  reign  of  Louis 
XIV.  The  King  is  holding  his  levee.  He  is  old 
and  weary,  though  he  has  a  good  many  years  yet 
to  live.  He  looks  round  on  the  throng  of  silken 
simperers;  he  sees  the  snowy  shoulders,  the  daz- 
zling complexions  which  came  out  of  a  little  glass 
box,  the  towers  and  showers  and  bowers  of  curling 
hair,  most  of  which  is  put  away  at  night  with  the 
gown  and  the  necklace.  He  does  not  care  for  them 
any  more.  He  speaks  to  this  marquis  in  peach- 
colored  satin,  and  nods  Jove-like  when  that  count 
in  silver  brocade  and  the  other  duke  in  cloth-of- 
gold  bend  the  knee  before  him  and  speak  in  hushed 
whispers,  calling  him  great  and  awful  and  god- 
like. He  knows  he  is  all  this,  but  somehow  it 
does  not  interest  him  as  it  used;  he  is  very  weary. 
Behold,  all,  all  is  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit. 
To  him,  thus  languishing  on  his  throne,  enters 
suddenly  a  man,  —  not  a  courtier,  though  his  plain 
dress  is  that  of  a  gentleman;  not  a  being  of  the 
same  world,  one  would  think,  as  these.  His  dark 


202      GLIMPSES   OF  THE  FRENCH   COURT. 

locks  are  threaded  with  silver  now,  the  bronzed 
face  is  seamed  and  lined  with  wrinkles  of  care  and 
thought,  while  here  and  there  a  scar  tells  of  sword- 
cut  or  bullet.  But  the  keen,  dark  eyes  sparkle 
with  all  the  joyous  brilliance  of  five-and-twenty 
years  ago;  and  Jean  Bart  at  fifty  is  the  youngest 
man  in  this  room  to-day,  if  it  is  the  heart  that 
gives  the  age.  He  kneels  to  kiss  the  royal  hand, 
—  poor  old  hand!  We  know  how  much  mischief 
it  has  done,  and  yet  we  are  sorry  to  soe  it  shake 
so;  and  then,  standing  erect,  he  looks  around  in 
wonder  on  the  jewelled  court.  They  look  at  him, 
too,  with  equal  wonder,  —  the  dames  and  damsels 
admiring,  the  counts  and  marquises  sneering.  "A 
common  seaman !  "  they  whisper.  "  His  parents 
vulgar  fishing-folk  of  a  dirty  sea-port  village. 
What  are  things  coming  to,  mon  cher,  when  such 
a  person  as  this  is  decorated,  is  ennobled  ? " 

But  the  weary  old  King  gazes,  with  a  feeling  of 
interest  that  he  had  almost  forgotten,  on  the  stal- 
wart figure  before  him.  He  sighs.  "Ah,  Jean 
Bart,"  he  says,  — and  not  in  a  whisper  either,  — 
"  Ah,  Jean  Bart,  I  would  to  God  I  had  ten  thou- 
sand men  like  you ! "  And  the  sailor,  who  had 
never  been  taught  to  speak  anything  save  the  truth, 
answered  simply,  "Sire,  I  can  well  believe  it. 
Je  le  crois  bien  !  " 

One  wishes  this  man  could  have  died  at  sea.  It 
is  what  he  himself  would  have  wished,  —  some 
fiery  apotheosis  like  that  which  bore  the  old  Sea- 


A    CORSAIR   OF  FRANCE.  203 

Fox  aloft,  with  his  enemies  around  him,  or  some 
swift  shot  carrying  glory  in  its  sting;  but  this  was 
not  to  be.  A  commodore  at  fifty-two,  he  was  pre- 
paring, with  the  rest  of  warlike  France,  to  meet 
the  forces  of  the  Grand  Alliance,  in  1702.  He 
was  commissioned  to  prepare  a  squadron  for  his  old 
work  of  sweeping  the  Channel.  A  fine  seventy- 
four-gun  frigate  was  sent  to  him  for  his  flagship. 
Working  night  and  day,  trudging  about  the  dock- 
yards, encouraging  the  workmen  by  word,  by  help- 
ing hand,  the  commodore  never  considered  that  he 
was  no  longer  five-and-twenty.  Besides,  this  land 
was  a  strange  place,  not  fit  for  a  sailor.  If  he 
could  have  kept  at  sea,  he  might  have  lived  to  a 
hundred.  As  it  was,  wet,  exposure,  carelessness, 
brought  on  an  attack  of  pleurisy.  With  the 
wisdom  of  the  day,  he  was  bled  and  blistered, 
blistered  and  bled,  till  his  strength  was  gone, 
fought  five  days  against  the  last  enemy,  and  then 
passed  peacefully  away,  in  the  little  house  in  which 
he  was  born.  Adieu,  Jean  Bart ! 

You  may  see  his  tomb  to-day,  at  the  foot  of  the 
high  altar,  in  the  old  church  of  St.  Eloi,  in  his 
own  Dunkirk.  The  museum  of  the  town  is  full  of 
memorials  of  him.  His  name  lives  in  the  heart 
of  every  Breton.  Let  us  too  remember  him  as  a 
brave  and  honest  man. 

THE    END. 


17526 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


A     000  673  050 


':;  ! 


Univt 

Sc 

I 


